It was hot and noisy inside the ballroom, with pockets of uncomfortably cold air. After three years in Newport, Ryan couldn't help but think automatically that if Kirsten had been running things, even the temperature would be in order.
Of course, that would have been the old Kirsten -- carelessly confident, effortlessly in charge. These days, it seemed to him, she wasn't even sure that her own family would listen to her, let alone the rest of Newport society.
Something was going on – well, something had been going on since she'd returned from Suriak, sober and smiling, but with some spark of life somehow gone – but something new, something with Sandy. He could tell by the way they circled around each other -- warily -- in the kitchen, in the rare times when they were home at the same time; conversationally, in the rare times when they all ate a meal together and talked. It was a different tension than there'd been last winter, but even three years in Newport didn't erase a lifetime of being able to read the signs.
So when Kirsten had asked him – almost deferentially – to accompany them to this latest charity event, he didn't have the heart to say no. It was a measure of how things had been this year that she hadn't realized that he and Marissa had broken up; it was a measure of how things had been that he ended up being pressed into service as her escort when Sandy bailed for a business dinner at the last minute.
He tugged at his silver tie as he drifted automatically towards the open French doors and the welcoming gloom of the veranda beyond. He didn't smoke any more, at least officially, but it had to be quieter out there, at least. He'd spent just over two dutiful hours at Kirsten's side, fetching her tonic and tonics and laughing in all the right places at the pauses in her stories. Seth had fled – somewhere else – with Summer as soon as she'd arrived with her father and Julie Cooper-Nichol-soon-to-be-Roberts, leaving him behind to grit his teeth as Newspie after Newpsie played gladhand with his ass even as he tried – and failed – to fill Sandy's formidable shoes.
Sandy had finally arrived ten minutes ago, looking flustered as always and full of vague apologies. Kirsten had released him with a suggestion that he find Seth and Summer, or maybe Marissa, never noticing Julie's sharp, assessing look at that. Sandy had apologized to him and, slightly more sensibly, had slipped him the car keys and suggested he go find Sadie.
But Sadie had told him she'd be working tonight – designing – and didn't want to be disturbed, and for the first time in a long time, Ryan had realized he had nothing better to do than try to cadge free drinks at a Newspie social. He'd managed to grab a glass of champagne from the tray of a distracted cater waiter, and had decided he'd drink it out on the veranda overlooking the ocean before even attempting to track Seth down.
He was hoping he might be able to persuade the two of them – and maybe even Taylor, whom he'd seen lurking about around the couple – to head out to the diner in Sandy's car, or maybe even home for some Playstation. He was tired of the event – whatever it was for – and tired, for a change, of his own company.
He passed several couples ill-concealed in the shadows as he strolled across the broad expanse of the stone patio, but even a quick, polite scan of each was enough to tell that none was the missing couple.
He settled against one of the wide posts that separated the veranda from the beach a short way beyond, and took a sip of the sweet, flat champagne before tilting his head back to look at the stars. No matter how long he'd live in a place like this, the one thing he'd never grow jaded about was how beautiful the skies glowed at night.
When Seth had forced them – in the interests of "research" (for what he'd never mentioned) – to watch Madagascar at Chrismakkuh, he'd howled with laughter – all out of proportion with the stupid cartoon – when they'd all said goodnight to the "star." Only Sandy had realized what was so funny, and had teased Seth and Kirsten all night about being "country cousins." He closed his eyes and half-smiled at the memory.
"Well, Ryan Atwood, of all people. Don't you clean up nice. Last I heard you had moved to Canada or something."
He startled at the unexpectedly familiar voice, and nearly dropped the thin, cheap glass in his hand.
"Is that – Lacey? Lacey Rowan?"
The question was out of his mouth before his brain had fully engaged.
"As I live and breathe – or something like that. Sorry, this place makes me want to keep quoting from Gone with the Wind or something. How've you been, LB?"
Good Lord. Lacey Rowan was standing in front of him, here, in Newport Beach, her ash blonde hair piled high on her head, dressed in ruffled blue dress that made her look like the top of a wedding cake, calling him by a nickname no one here had ever heard before.
"What are you doing here?"
They blurted the question at the same time.
"Jinx. Buy me a coke," Lacey said with an easy laugh, then elbowed him over until they were both leaning against the railing overlooking the sea, "Or, you know, buy me a drink."
She plucked the champagne from his hand and took a deep drink, then handed back to him, nose wrinkling.
"That's disgusting," she said, good-naturedly, "I think I'll stick to beer. So, you first, Mystery Boy. What are you doing here?"
Ryan risked a sideways glance at her before he answered, looking out over the distant waves.
"I live here now. I mean, again," he said finally.
Lacey nodded and tugged at the expensive wool of his new suit.
"Yeah, I should have guessed that. Nice drapes, guero." she said, her voice suddenly guttering like a street tough.
Lacey had shared the distinction of being one of only 17 white kids at Chino Hills High with him. Like Ryan, she had learned to pick up and put down pieces of the dominant Hispanic culture at will, and her easy Spanglish made him laugh with recognition. He'd once told Seth that he couldn't speak Spanish – and he was pretty sure Senora Bernstein at Harbor would heartily agree – but he could talk dirty Spanglish with the best of them .
"After, you know, everything that happened with Theresa, I couldn't – I didn't want to stay," he admitted finally. It had taken him a long time to admit to himself that Chino didn't fit him anymore that summer. If the Cohens hadn't invited him back, he wasn't sure what would have happened, but he knew he couldn't have stayed there alone.
"Yeah. I guessed as much. She likes Atlanta, it sounds like."
Ryan supposed it made as much sense as anything that Lacey and Theresa had kept in touch. Lacey had been one of Theresa's few girlfriends, even if they'd fought occasionally; at least once, Ryan was pretty sure, over him. Lacey'd been in a few years ahead of them in school, in the same grade as Arturo and Trey and Eddie, although only she and Eddie were actually midway between Ryan and Theresa and their brothers in age. Trey and 'Turo missed so much school that they were always a year or two behind until they finally dropped out.
"I heard that, too," he said, softly, "I, uh, I write her, sometimes. How about you – what are you doing here?"
"I'm on a date," she said, and he could hear the sarcasm dripping from her voice, "Can't you tell?"
"Well, who's your Prince Charming?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes and stole another sip of his warm champagne. Lacey had never been easy, exactly, but she'd never been the kind of girl he'd have expected to see at a Newport function. She went more for the bad-boy types – motorheads like Trey and Theresa's brother. She'd dated each of them for a while, back in the day, before settling in with Trey for what was, for his older brother, a personal best. They'd still been on and off the night the boys were arrested.
"Some Prince Charming. His name is Chip. That should have clued me in on the spot. Chip Matthews."
"How did you hook up with Chip Matthews?" he asked. Okay, he really had to start drinking again more regularly. A half-glass of champagne should not turn over the connection between his brain and his mouth quite that easily. "We, uh, we play soccer together."
"Believe it or not, I met him at work," she snorted. For a moment, Ryan tried to picture what work, exactly, his brother's ex would be doing in Newport.
"You, um, you don't own a cop costume, do you?" he asked uneasily.
Lacey turned to look at him for a long moment before smacking his bicep smartly.
"I'm not a stripper, Ryan. I'm a medical receptionist. At the sports-health clinic. Carmen's mama was the maid for Dr. Snedden for a million years. When she heard I got my certificate from community college, she put in a good word for me. It's good money, nice people . ."
She trailed off as Ryan's face reddened.
"I'm so sorry. I'm not usually this much of a dick," he said, embarrassed.
To his surprise, Lacey grinned at him and knocked affectionately into his shoulder again.
"That's okay. I'm pretty sure his mama thinks I'm a hooker. And I think he might, too," she added with venom.
Ryan risked a glance around the still-quiet veranda.
"Where is he, anyway?" he asked.
She turned her back on the ballroom with a deliberate movement.
"With any luck, he's choking on his own vomit somewhere around here. I think I was supposed to be the night's entertainment, but I don't think him and his buddies realized that my tolerance is a lot higher than theirs. We've been doing shots for a couple hours now. They went to find a restroom, and I came out for a little air. I should have known better," she finished in a much quieter voice.
He looked over at her carefully for the first time. To Newport eyes, Ryan could see why they might have gotten that impression. Her dress was skin-tight at the hip and chest, the cheap polyester fabric hugging her curves. The blue was nearly aquamarine as was her eye shadow, and there was a double row of lace flounces at the irregular hem just above her knee. Her silver shoes were plastic, open-toed stilettos, and matched her sparkly clutch. And her bangs were stiff with hairspray, and sticking straight up from her high, pale forehead.
But Ryan hadn't always lived in Newport, and he felt a stab of anger as he realized just what Chip had set his old friend up for.
"Is that Carmen's quinceanera dress?" he asked, suddenly.
Carmen Moreno's dress had been legendary in their neighborhood. She was the only virgin Ryan had known in Chino – and the only girl that everyone, male or female, seemed to like. Her own quinces had been a disaster – coming two weeks after her father had been laid off from his job at one of the big L.A. hotels. They'd cancelled everything. By the time they'd gotten back on their feet, it was too late – Carmen was a year older and not at all interested in having a party. So when her father hit the number on the street, he'd instead bought her the most expensive party dress he could find.
She wore it to every dance, every party, every event she could for a whole year, but still – in her eyes – couldn't justify the expense. So she started lending it out to other girls for special occasions. Over time, it had been dyed, altered and re-imagined so many times that no one could remember what the original had looked like. But it still only went out for the most special of occasions. If Carmen had lent it to Lacey, then both girls had thought this date was a very big deal indeed.
Lacey smiled at him and pushed off from the railing, doing a little twirl before coming to rest unsteadily on her heels, just a little closer to him.
"It is. Julia Alvarez dyed it for her cousin's wedding. Carm helped me do up the hem yesterday," she said shyly, "We sort of thought it would be like a prom, but Chip said it was cocktails, so no long dresses."
Ryan felt his stomach knot. Even living in a trailer, Marissa owned dresses that cost more than his tuition at Harbor. No one here would understand that Lacey was more dressed up than she'd probably ever been before. That she'd bought her cheap shoes and her cheap bag together, on special, by not eating lunch for a couple weeks, or that it had taken her hours to put her hair up in that elaborate style, or that she thought she looked just like someone out of Gone With the Wind. He felt an unexpected surge of tenderness for her.
"You look beautiful," he said, and meant it. "Chip Matthews is an ass."
He reached out and touched her face gently and she leaned into his touch.
"So, you like you're doing well," she said finally, after a minute.
He shrugged, and let his hand drop reluctantly.
"It's okay. I mean – yeah, I guess I am. The Cohens are – great. I'm even thinking about college next year. It's really different."
"College, hunh? Your mom must be busting a gut."
Ryan shrugged again, suddenly uncomfortable, and turned back towards the ocean.
"We don't really keep in touch."
"Oh." He felt a hand on his arm, resting just above his pulse point. "How about – I heard Trey got out," she said finally.
He looked over to her again, then dropped his eyes to her hand, its carefully manicured tips vivid against his dark jacket.
"Yeah, that didn't go so well, either," he admitted, finally.
"Your brother never could keep himself out of trouble," she said, half fondly and half genuinely upset.
He had forgotten what it was like to have this conversation with someone who actually knew the Atwoods, up close and personal. How easy it could be when he didn't have to supply each twisted, laborious detail.
"He, uh, left for Vegas, earlier this year. It was – I mean, I'm sure he always meant to keep in touch with you," Ryan stammered, feeling stupider as each word left his mouth. This had always been his job – wingman, clean-up guy for Trey's wounded women – and even after everything, he felt himself fall back into the role with ease.
"Oh, please, baby boy, don't. I kicked your brother's ass to the curb right about the time you disappeared. I knew what I was getting into with Trey, but I didn't realize just how stupid he was. Getting you in all that trouble while you were still living at home. What a moron," she finished.
Behind them, he could hear people drifting back towards the overheated ballroom again as the orchestra returned from one of its many breaks.
"Hey," he said, and jerked his head towards the French doors in the distance, "Want to get your money's worth? I'm, like, the world's worst dancer, but I'm game if you are."
Lacey half-turned to follow his motion, and ended up leaning back into the crook of his arm.
"No, thanks. If I remember correctly, I was the one that had to take care of Theresa after you gave her a nosebleed trying to learn to salsa that time," she said, but Ryan could see her smiling up at him.
"I can -- I can give you a ride home, if you want," he offered softly, feeling the weight of Sandy's keys in his pocket. "That way, you don't have to depend on the, um, kindness of strangers."
He couldn't imagine that Chip and his buddies were going to bother to find her to say goodbye, let alone make sure she had a ride all the way back to Chino.
She smiled up at him brightly, at that, and then shook her head.
"Did you know," she asked conversationally, "That the country club had rooms upstairs? That you can stay in if you're the, ah,guest of a member. Which get billed to the member's credit card, by the way."
Ryan swallowed, and felt her heat as she leaned into him just a little more, letting the tendrils of her hair brush across his neck.
"Yeah, Lacey, I'm not a member. I don't even know if the Cohens have…"
She cut him off with an elbow to his rib.
"Not you, dumbass," she said, adding under her breath, "And here I thought that you were supposed to be the smart one."
She opened up her purse and fished out an old-fashioned brass key on a heavy wooden holder, before pushing herself off the railing and turning to face him.
"The Matthews. That Chip was just so thoughtful, not wanting me to have to drive all the way back tonight and then turn around and go to work in the morning. Too bad there's only one key to the room, and by the time he figures it out, he'll be too drunk to remember where it is."
She walked off a few steps, her back still to the ballroom, dangling the key out like a treat.
"So, Atwood, you seeing anyone right now?"
He felt a slow grin spread across his face as a once-familiar, nearly-forgotten heat spread through the pit of his stomach.
"Funny you should ask," he started as he caught up to her, taking the key and pocketing it for safekeeping as he took her arm, " As it just so happens that I'm between girls right now."
Ten minutes later, they had made it to the back steps just outside the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. There was a bank of elevators off the expansive lobby, but neither of them wanted to risk being seen so publicly by either Chip and his gang or, frankly, by anyone who might know Ryan. They had just been about to head up to the second floor when Ryan heard Sandy's familiar, booming voice behind him.
"There you are! Seth and Summer said they hadn't seen you all night," Sandy said as he hurried over to join them. Ryan sighed and smiled tightly at Lacey before turning to greet his guardian.
"Well, hello," Sandy said, as he came close enough to realize that Ryan and Lacey were together. He held out his hand, swaying very slightly, towards Lacey. "You must be –"
"Sandy, this is Lacey. She's a friend of mine from back in Chino," Ryan cut him off before he could finish.
"Oh, well, any friend of Ryan's is a friend of ours," he said amiably, "Why don't you come join my wife and I for a drink or two. We love to meet Ryan's friends.
Ryan stared at him as he enveloped Lacey's hand in both of his. He was pretty sure Sandy hadn't been this drunk an hour ago.
"Thanks, Mr. Cohen," Lacey said, carefully extracting her hand from his embrace, "But we were just going to catch up for a little bit. I'll have LB home before bedtime, I promise."
"LB?" Sandy asked, tilting his head towards Ryan's reddening face, "Who's LB?"
"I am, Sandy," he answered, and then tried to end the conversation by physically moving between Sandy and Lacey, but she just peered around him to the older man, grinning.
"LB's what Trey always called him – so we all kind of picked it up. It stands for little brother."
He heard Sandy's delighted chuckle and only hoped that his guardian was too far gone to really remember this conversation in the morning.
"Okay, then. Just make sure you're home by curfew. I'll leave you my car. Kirsten's going to drive us all home in the Ranger," he gave Ryan a clap on the shoulder and smiled, "LB, hunh? I'm going to have to remember that."
"Please don't," Ryan said, but it was too late.
"It's better than BA, you have to admit, LB."
He couldn't see her face, but he knew the exact expression that was flitting across at this very moment.
"BA?" Sandy asked in the same curious tone.
"Baby Atwood."
"Of course. Baby Atwood. Not such a baby anymore, though, is he?" Sandy said fondly as his hand tightened briefly on Ryan's shoulder.
"Not a baby at all," Lacey agreed, and tugged Ryan free. They waited a breathless moment as Sandy wove his way back across the dance floor towards Kirsten before they turned and ran up the stairs, hand in hand.
The hallway upstairs and dim and narrow, with silk-draped walls and discreet sconces set every twenty feet or so into niches in the wall. Ryan was willing to bet that these rooms were not used for the full night by their members very often, judging by the soft moans he could hear from behind nearly every door.
"Well, I gotta hand it to you. You rich people sure do a bordello up fine," Lacey whispered as they finally found her room – 12 – towards the end of the corridor.
"I'm not rich," he whispered back as he nuzzled the back of her neck, pressing her against the door, "I live in the pool house."
"Whatever," she said, and moved her hands without turning back towards him, into his pockets, looking for her key. When she finally found it, it took her three tries to get the heavy oak door to open over the plush interior carpet of the room.
He followed her inside, feeling the faint buzz of the party below his feet, but she rounded on him, pushing him back against the door as she closed it behind him.
Even in her spindly heels she was an inch or so shorter than him, and she tilted her neck up to capture his mouth in an urgent kiss. He felt her hands rummaging again, not searching so much as exploring, this time, until they came to rest against the front of his very expensive pants.
"Not Baby Atwood anymore," she muttered against his lips briefly before returning to deepen the kiss, probing his mouth with her tongue. She tasted faintly of sweet champagne and sugar-free orange Trident gum.
He took a second to break free and push them away from the door. The room was dark, but the curtains weren't drawn completely, and he could see a shaft of moonlight illuminating a four-poster bed, piled with useless decorative pillows and swathed in some diaphanous material. It looked like something out of one of Dawn's old Harlequin romances.
"You know," he murmured as he pushed her carefully backwards, making sure that her heels didn't catch in the thick carpet, "There are more comfortable places in here for this to go on."
With that, he steered her until her knees bumped against the high frame of the bed, then pushed her down into a sitting position.
She smiled at him and looked around the room in disbelief.
"And the bordello chic continues," she snorted, and suddenly, Ryan loved her just a little bit. "You have to tell me, Ry, are rich girls so bad in bed that you need all this distraction?"
"Yes," he answered before he had time to stop himself, and she threw her head back in a surprisingly deep, rich laugh, baring her pale throat to him.
Without much thought, he stripped off his suit coat, hanging it carefully on the back of a chair. His tie followed, and he struggled a moment to unbutton his dress shirt with its stupid complicated cufflinks.
"Here, let me," Lacey offered, but he shook his head. He liked her, perched on the pale peach duvet, surrounded by pillows, watching him like an amused and exotic bird.
Without much thought, he finished undressing, toeing off his loafers and letting his pants puddle on the floor, the belt still attached. He returned to the side of the bed wearing only his black boxer-briefs, and knelt at her feet.
"Ryan, what -- what are you doing?" she whispered. He grinned up at her, and slowly removed her strappy sandal. She wasn't wearing stockings, and the cheap plastic had bitten into her bare skin over the arch of her foot. He planted a quick kiss on each weal, hearing her soft intake of breath above him as he ran his hands over them gently, massaging her feet. It had been ages since he'd had to care for a woman's foot, sore and weary after a day in ill-fitting stiletto heels.
"Oh, well, in that case," she said rather breathlessly, "Carry on."
He took his time, letting his hands roam over her feet, massaging carefully, each time, climbing just a little higher past her ankle. He dug his thumbs into her calves, deeply, feeling her gradually start to loosen beneath them. When his thumbs started to brush against a faint, sharp hair left here and there on the curve of her kneecap, he bent his head again, and kissed a path up her shins, to the hem of her dress.
He shifted, ducking his head under the stiff crinoline beneath it, but he felt Lacey's hand touch his ear, briefly. He pulled back, sitting on his heels to look up at her. Her face was flushed, with bright spots of crimson in the middle of each cheek, and her breath was shallow.
"Okay, definitely not Baby Atwood anymore," she said, smiling again, "But Carmen will kill me if I have sex in this dress."
He felt something deep inside him loosen that he hadn't even known was tight. It had been so long since he'd been able to think about sex as just sex – without heartache and trauma and past mine fields attached. Marissa had not even been able to say it. He'd tried to remember to call it making love, but even that had proved too much for her. She skirted the entire topic, actually, muttering something about 'doing it' if he pressed the issue.
He stood up and held out a hand to help her to her feet beside the bed.
"Hey, I've seen her angry. I don't blame you."
He was joking, of course. Carmen would never even yell at Lacey, at anyone, and he relished actually knowing that, for a change, knowing all the actors in the play, all their histories and temperaments and personalities.
He kissed her again, fumbling at the side of her dress for a hidden zipper. After a moment, she slapped his hand away and did it herself. The sound was loud in the quiet room, and the stiff blue fabric fell to the floor with a rustle. She stepped out of the pile of dress on the floor, and before she could move again, he scooped it up and placed it over his suit jacket on the room's one chair.
When he turned back, she was standing, watching him, pale in the dark room. Her hair was still up in its elaborate hairdo, and her skin looked like porcelain, like alabaster, in the diffuse light. She was wearing a satin bra and boy shorts that matched the aquamarine of her dress exactly, and she shifted from foot to foot, suddenly, under his gaze.
"What?" she asked defensively, "What are you looking at?"
He returned to her side, brushing aside a loose curl to kiss her at the base of her neck.
"You," he whispered against the pulse of her throat. "You're beautiful."
He heard her laugh rumble again, but this time, it didn't sound very funny.
"You don't have to say that," she whispered, "I'm a sure thing. I promise."
Ryan broke away to look at her face in the moonlight. Her garish eye shadow sparkled even in the gloom, but he could see a wave of something – doubt, self-loathing – skitter across her face and then disappear.
"I said it because I wanted to. You are beautiful. You look like – I don't know – a statue, a piece of art, maybe, in the moonlight," he whispered.
"A piece of work is more like it," she said, and now, at last, he heard the hurt she'd been holding at bay downstairs, "I must have looked ridiculous."
He knew better than to pretend that he didn't understand.
"Matthews is a dick. He didn't realize how lucky he was you said yes. You looked great down there. Don't worry about it."
He thought back to what he'd seen just a moment before.
"You looked – exotic – like some rare bird."
She sniffed and buried her head in his shoulder.
"Yeah, great. I'm a parrot," she muttered.
"Hey, hey," he said softly, getting a finger under her chin and forcing her to look up at him, "Better a parrot than a dull grey seagull, right?"
She rewarded him with a watery smile, and he ran the back of his hand down her soft cheek again.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, "I mean, it's been sort of a crappy night for you, and you said you had a lot to drink…"
She stopped him by the simple of expedient of capturing his lips with another kiss.
"I know what I'm doing," she whispered, "I know it's not – it doesn't mean anything."
Ryan pulled her close to him again.
"Hey – we're old friends, right? It'll always mean something."
Without giving her any more time to think, he pushed her back onto the bed, following her swiftly. The two of them pushed square pillows and round pillow and pillows shaped like Tootsie rolls carelessly to the floor.
He lay just inside the split of her legs, his hips pressing into the v at the tops of her thighs. He raised himself up on his forearms to kiss her again, then allowed his one hand to roam, caressing her breast beneath the scrap of brightly colored satin. After a few moments, he knelt up, pulling her with him. With practiced ease he lowered the straps of her bra, baring one pale brown nipple and then the other to the night air. They tightened immediately in the air-conditioned room, darkening as they pebbled with the cold, standing to attention. He lowered his head to her left breast and drew the nipple into his mouth, listening for her small sounds of pleasure as her drew on her with his tongue. He spent several minutes alternating between her full breasts, round and heavy under his hands. He loved the feel of them, firm and not at all delicate, under his increasingly forceful ministrations. He finally released the clasp to her bra and let it fall away beneath them as he lowered her back onto the duvet.
Under his own boxers, he felt an almost foreign ache of desire. It had been a long time since he'd been given this much freedom over a woman's body, the freedom to look and touch and explore, to reassure with touch and intention – his greatest strengths – instead of fumbling around with words.
He slid down Lacey's body, smelling her sweet, floral perfume, feeling the light mist of perspiration break out across the flat planes of her abdomen, across the rounded softness of her belly, tasting the faint tang of an almost-forgotten past – bus exhaust and corn tortillas and cheap body lotion – and under that, the unmistakable musk of her own scent, dark and warm and slightly mysterious.
By the time he had moved to her center, her juices had soaked through the satin of her panties, and her coaxed her out of them without a thought. Like a thirsty man in a dessert, he went after her liquid, burying his nose in the light-brown fur that covered her mound as her licked and sucked in her hidden folds, her soft places, feeling her roll and shudder beneath him. He felt her buck against him in climax, but he couldn't quite stop, not yet. The taste of her on his tongue was sharp and salty and faintly bitter, like the ocean after a rain, and he wasn't satisfied until she stretched beneath him again, cutting off her cries with a yelp as she spasmed around his tongue.
He wiped his face against her inner thigh, feeling the scratch of his own faint five o'clock shadow against it and rolled his neck before pillowing his head on her belly. Beneath him, she stretched like a cat on a windowsill.
"Good Lord, Atwood," she murmured, "Now I know Trey didn't teach you that."
He laughed, and came up to lie next to her. He could feel his own unfulfilled desire like a dull hunger in the pit of his stomach, like the sharp anticipation he sometimes felt before a big game. There was no weight of expectations to be met, promises to keep. This was animal instinct and old home ties all rolled into one.
He began to nuzzle against her again, and after a moment, he felt her hand brush against his groin, her long acrylic nails scratching lightly against the soft cotton. She laughed he his cock leapt in her hand, seemingly with a mind of its own.
"So, it looks like what goes around comes around, hunh, LB," she said with a wicked smile.
"Please, please don't call me that while I'm in bed with you," he asked, and she laughed again.
"Sorry. Now, let me see if I can return the favor," she purred against his ear.
She rolled him onto his back, pulling his boxers off with a flourish, like a magician's assistant, then straddled him, her wet warmth against his stomach making him pulse with need. She bent at the waist, facing away from him, and he felt her tongue flutter against him as her pale buttocks shifted and spread on the planes of his abdomen. That thought made his balls pull up tight, and her felt her nails, suddenly, scratching against his sac, with just enough pain to refocus his mind. She cupped his heavy balls in one hand, rolling them back and forth against her fingers as her mouth suddenly engulfed him to the root. He felt her move against him, her tongue circling opposite, and then he was awash in sensation – warm mouth and cool air, soft flesh and hard muscle, the taste of her still in his mouth and the damp earthy scent of her just below his nose – his felt himself twist and shake and then, suddenly, the sensations shifted.
She spun atop him, facing him once again, and then reached over his head to the night table beside the bed, One blue-veined globe hung above him, and he pulled it down into his mouth, spanning his waist with his hands as he felt ropes of muscle stretch above him.
"Aha!" he heard a moment later, triumphantly, and she returned to him fully, clutching a square of orange plastic between her finger and her thumb.
"Are you sure you want to…" he started again, but she'd already torn off the packaging, reaching behind herself to find his dripping cock and roll the condom on.
"If you ask again, you may not like the answer," she whispered, licking his ear to show she was teasing.
"Are you sure?" she asked in return, smiling down at him.
"God, yes," he almost shouted. "I want to be inside you."
With that, she moved again, shifting to take him inside of her in one swift motion. He felt her come to rest just above his pubic bone and hesitate, briefly, adjusting to the feel of him, before rotating her hips and grinding against him slowly. She dropped her hands on either side of his shoulders, and he reached up to kiss her, to touch her, to provide a counterpoint to the real world outside the whole world the crux of their bodies had become. He let her set the pace for a few minutes, building the rhythm and then changing it again with the shift of her hips, until he could stand it no more.
With one swift motion he rolled, pulling her over with him, flipping her onto her back. He braced himself on his forearms again for a better angle, and started inside her again in earnest. She matched him stroke for stroke as he set up a harder and faster rhythm, until he was no more aware of her pleasure, of her motion, of anything except the urgent need in his own body for completion, for connection. He let himself go, finally, and gave into to his own wild impulses, letting his body's desires carry him to his own climax even as she quaked beneath him once again.
When he came back to himself a few moments later, he was still braced above her, panting, and they were both covered in sweat. He pulled out from her carefully, grasping the condom at its base and disposing of it discreetly before he let himself collapse next to her, spent.
"I'm so glad we ran into each other like this," he said after a minute, in his best humor-the-Newpsies voice. For a second, her eyes flew open, startled, then she caught on to the joke and chuckled deeply beside him.
"That Chip Matthews really doesn't know what he's missing," she declared.
"Lucky for me," he answered, kissing her neck, and her smiled at him again.
"We're disgusting," she declared after a few minutes, and he nodded his agreement. "We'll have to shower before you go."
He knew he should think about getting back to the Cohen's, but he didn't want to leave just yet. He lay beside her, absently removing hairpins and loosening her curls as they talked softly of the old neighborhood and their new lives.
"What are you doing?" she asked, finally, "It took me forever to put this hair up."
"I know. You'll have to take it out to shower, though, and I wanted to see you looking like you before I go," he whispered.
He ran his hands carefully through her hair, working each knot free with fierce concentration.
"So, things are really okay for you?" he asked, finally.
She stilled his hands and turned to look into his eyes.
"They really are, Ryan. I love my job, and with me working, well, my mom doesn't have to stay with my father," she said.
"Yeah, congrats on the college thing. That's great," he answered, sidestepping the parts he knew she wouldn't talk about anyway. Anymore than he would.
She grinned.
"Thanks. It took three years of double shifts at Elzed's Paradise, but I finally made it through. That's why I thought you were making fun of me for being a stripper."
"Dancer," he corrected automatically, and she laughed her deep belly laugh again.
"I think I know what I was, Ryan. But still, that's the worst thing I did, and that's not so bad. How about you, kiddo? You don't seem so happy for being up here in the lap of luxury."
"No, it's good, really," he said, after a moment. "Things are good. I – it's been a little weird, lately, but things are getting better. The Cohens are great – they treat me like family – and I never thought I'd be living a life like this, you know?"
"I know," she whispered. He noticed she didn't ask about Trey or Dawn again, and he was grateful.
"You better get going, you know. I don't want the Cohens to think I'm rubbing all my Chino off on you," she said as she started to get up. He grabbed her and kissed her before she could leave the bed.
"All right, you. Estas muy acobado. You're done. I'm going to run a shower, and then we're going to clean you up and send you home," she ordered, and with her hair down around her face Ryan could suddenly see her once again as Trey's girlfriend, worrying about whether he had enough to eat when they weren't around. "And you don't have to be a stranger. We do have phones in Chino, you know. Mine's even turned on most of the time.
She moved across the room in darkness, and for a moment she was silhouetted against the sudden bright light as she fumbled for the bathroom switch.
"You know," he called, "I hear that two people in the shower is more efficient than one."
He heard her laughter even above the rumble of the water pipes.
"Just exactly what time is your curfew, anyway?" she called, as he flew out of bed to join her.