The List (The List #1) Page 12

  “Check,” I announce, waiting to see if she’ll give me shit about the “hot guy” part. Cassie’s ability to flip me crap is one of the things I adore about her.

  But she’s focused on her story. “After the mud bath, we shower off together.”

  “I think that can be arranged.” I glance over my shoulder at the large, double-headed tile shower the attendant pointed out to us when we arrived. “We could definitely have sex in there.”

  “We could, but that’s not the story I told my sisters last year.”

  “Right.” I try to recall the way she worded it on The List. “Something about the ladies’ dressing room?”

  “It’s actually called the Ladies’ Relaxation Suite here, which is perfect. Is that the snootiest thing you’ve ever heard?”

  “Pretty snooty,” I agree, trying to decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  “Anyway, I think the Ladies’ Relaxation Suite will fit the bill. I looked up pictures on the website, and it’s exactly what I was imagining.”

  Cassie’s commitment to the plan makes me smile. Her attention to detail, the way she’s devoted to making her own fibs a reality. I love that I get to be part of that.

  “Okay, so no sex yet,” I say. “I should at least get to touch you.”

  She laughs and pushes away from the edge of the tub, turning like an otter to slide into the space between my legs. She leans back against my chest, and my hands find her breasts in the silky liquid.

  “Oooh,” she says as I stroke my palms over her nipples. “That’s nice.”

  “Very exfoliating.” I scoop a handful of soft silt off the bottom of the tub and massage it into her breasts, cupping those perfect, slippery orbs in my hands. I’ve never thought of mud being a turn-on, but it feels fucking incredible when I’m stroking it over her skin.

  I grab another handful of silt, reveling in the smoothness of it. Of her. Running my palms over her belly, I massage it into her flesh and feel her squirm against me.

  “That tickles,” she murmurs.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No!”

  Well okay, then.

  I keep touching her, gathering handful after handful of mud. I glide it over her thighs, her calves, the delicate curves of her upper arms. By the time I’ve rubbed mud into nearly every part of her body, she’s practically purring in my lap. I’m guessing she’s aware that I’m sporting some major wood, and I hope it makes her want me as much as I want her right now.

  “We should get out and shower,” she says.

  “I’ve never heard a woman so eager to shower.”

  “It’s not the shower I’m eager for.”

  I know the feeling.

  We scramble over the edge of the tub, leaving muddy footprints across the tile. There’s a reason everything in this room is the color of chocolate syrup. She makes it to the shower first and turns on both sets of taps. I stand back for a second and watch the water sluice over her body, showing beautiful pink trails of skin through the mud. She rinses her face and turns to grin at me.

  “You coming?”

  “I’m hoping to in about five minutes.”

  She laughs and pulls me into the hot spray with her. I get mud all over her freshly washed body, which gives us the excuse to scrub each other all over. Hands are everywhere—arms, legs, breasts, bellies. We can’t stop touching each other, and I’m not sure if we’re trying to get clean or dirty or if there’s something else at play here.

  It’s the ‘something else’ that gives me pause. What are we doing here? Are we still sleeping together for the sport of it, or is this starting to feel like more?

  I think I know the answer to that, and it scares me witless.

  But I can’t think of that right now with her hand gripping my cock in the soapy water and her body pressed wet and lush against mine.

  “Come on,” she says. “I can’t wait any longer.”

  She lets go of my cock and grabs my hand, which isn’t nearly as satisfying. But it’s a means to an end I’m anticipating very much, so we twist off the taps and towel ourselves off fast enough to set a world record.

  Once we’re both wrapped in thick white robes with the Cascara Springs logo on the front, Cassie grabs my hand again. “This way.”

  Her voice is urgent as she pulls me toward a door marked Ladies’ Relaxation Suite. She presses a palm against it, then turns to face me. “Maybe you should wait here a second. I can make sure the coast is clear.”

  “Good idea.”

  She pushes through the door, damp hair trailing down her back, bare legs making me wish they were wrapped around me. I watch her disappear through the door, hating that I miss her even now.

  Get it together, I will myself. It’s just sex. You’ve had plenty of sex before.

  But not like this. Never like this.

  Cassie pushes back through the door again, a big smile on her face. “Come on,” she says. “We’ve got the place to ourselves. Ready to cross off number ten?”

  I nod and let Cassie pull me through the door. My whole body is ready, with every nerve snapped to attention.

  But my brain. My brain can’t stop running the numbers. No matter how you add it up, we’re almost to the end of the list.

  Which means my time with Cassie is almost up.

  That bothers me a lot more than it should.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cassie

  When I invented my story of the tryst in the snooty rich person’s spa, I spared no detail for my sisters.

  I described the feel of the luxurious Turkish towel against the back of my thighs, the scent of the juniper shampoo I’d used in my hair, the coolness of the marble against my palms as I gripped the edge of the counter while a hot, nameless guy stood between my bare thighs.

  And while some of the details are different—the counter is granite and the guy definitely has a name—I never imagined it would feel this good.

  “That’s nice,” I murmur as Simon kisses his way down the center of my body.

  We’re locked in the largest dressing room of the Ladies’ Relaxation Suite, and Simon wasted no time parting my robe and boosting me onto the counter beside a polished copper sink. This place is amazing, but not nearly as amazing as the feel of Simon sliding into me with nothing at all between us.

  I groan and close my eyes, marveling at the feel of him gliding deep inside me with aching slowness.

  “Cassie,” he murmurs against my throat. He’s gentle about it, but my body is more than ready to take all of him. I’ve been desperate for it for the last hour, and I clench my thighs around him to draw him deeper.

  The feeling of condom-free sex is still new, and so exquisite. There’s something about the way our bodies glide together, the delicate friction of it. I love the way I can feel each ridge and groove. Every last inch of him.

  It’s a lot of inches.

  “God, you feel good.” I dig my heels into his back, pulling him into me as I press my shoulder blades against the mirror for leverage. He stops kissing my collarbones and lifts his face to kiss my lips instead. There’s a heat in those brown eyes that sends pulses of desire straight through my core.

  “You feel amazing.”

  I grin into his eyes, then groan when he angles up just a fraction of an inch. I swear the man has a G-spot magnet in the tip of his cock.

  “Right there?” he murmurs.

  “Mmmhmmm. Oh, yes! Don’t stop.”

  He’s breathing heavy now against my neck, and the sound of my own heartbeat is hammering in my head. I’m not sure how we hear the thud of a door through all that noise, but we both freeze in unison.

  Footsteps echo through the Ladies’ Relaxation Suite, and we both glance at the dressing room door. It’s bolted tight, but there’s eighteen inches of space separating the bottom of the door from the floor. If anyone glances under it, we’re busted.

  Maybe the person will leave quickly. I put a finger to my lips, signaling Simon to be qui
et. It’s probably housekeeping or another spa guest or—

  “Cassondra Michaels?”

  I bite my lip. I can easily pretend I’m in the restroom. Maybe if I just—

  Achooo!

  I gasp, startled, as Simon sneezes again.

  Achooo!

  Incidentally, having a man sneeze while his cock is inside me was not on The List. Maybe it should have been. God bless the man, he didn’t slip out.

  I yank my robe up over my bare shoulder, though that particular spot of naked flesh should be the least of my concerns. I shoot another glance at the locked door and wonder if that sneeze sounded too manly.

  Achooo!

  I fake my own sneeze, pitching the sound a little deeper to match Simon’s while giving it a decidedly female tone.

  This is serious business, the fake sneezing.

  “Bless you,” comes a voice on the other side of the door. “Miss Michaels?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Henrietta, your massage therapist. I’m just getting everything ready for your appointment, and I had a couple questions about your preferences.”

  “My preferences?” I swallow hard and glance down. Simon is still nestled inside me, our bodies joined at the edge of the countertop.

  This is officially the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.

  I look up to see Simon grinning at me, a conspiratorial look in his eye. He inches back just a little, then presses into me again.

  “Your preferences,” Henrietta repeats as I stifle a gasp. “It says here you requested a Swedish massage. You’ve had one before?”

  “Um, yes. Yes of course. Hundreds of times.”

  I’m actually not sure if I have, but that seems like the answer that will have Henrietta gone the quickest. Right now, with my legs spread and Simon deep inside me, I’m not up for a detailed explanation of the differences between Swedish and deep-tissue massage.

  I watch Simon glance down at the door lock again. I keep expecting him to pull out, but he doesn’t. To be honest, I don’t want him to. He feels so good, and if we can just get Henrietta out of here—

  I take a few deep breaths, hoping that’s the end of my conversation with Henrietta. Hoping we can get back to the business at hand.

  But Henrietta has other ideas. “Are there particular areas where you’re feeling tight right now?”

  Simon grins at me. Those brown eyes flash with mischief. Slowly, oh-so-deliciously, he eases back. Then he slides in again, never once breaking eye contact. It feels exquisite. It feels—

  “Oh my God,” I whisper.

  He draws back again, then slides in deeper. My body clenches around him as he leans close to whisper against the side of my neck. “I can tell her where you’re feeling tight,” he murmurs. “So tight. So hot. So wet. So—”

  “My shoulders!” I shout a little too loudly. Simon shakes with laughter as he turns to plant a kiss on one of the shoulders in question, shoving aside the fabric of my fancy Turkish spa robe.

  “Wonderful,” Henrietta replies, and I swear to God her voice is closer than it was a few seconds ago. Is she standing right outside our stall?

  “And how do you like your effleurage?” she calls out.

  “Um, my effleurage?”

  I have no idea if that’s a body part or a beverage. At this point I’m considering shouting adjectives that would cover me either way. Tender? Warm? Uh—

  “I’m so sorry,” Henrietta calls. “Effleurage are the long, sweeping strokes we use in Swedish massage. I typically alternate between firm and light pressure, using palms or fingertips, but some clients have very specific preferences.”

  As she speaks, Simon slips his own palm between our bodies. He skims his fingertips across my clit, using my own wetness to tease the sensitive bud. I gasp and press against him, my body acting without permission from my brain.

  “Fingertips!” My reply comes out more like a groan as the pads of Simon’s fingers continue to torment me. “Uh, light at first, but maybe just a tiny bit faster.”

  “I can do that,” Simon whispers. Then he does.

  On the other side of the door, Henrietta is still talking.

  “That’s excellent feedback,” she calls. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate a client who knows what she wants.”

  There’s a shuffling outside the room, and I picture Henrietta taking notes. Simon continues his magic, gliding his fingers over my clit as he slowly begins to fuck me again. He finds his rhythm, working his hips in tandem with the stroking of his fingers. I let my head fall back against the mirror, so drunk with pleasure that I’m not sure I’d care right now if a whole team of masseuses stood and watched.

  But there’s just Henrietta. As Simon drives inside me again, she clears her throat. “How deep do you like it?”

  I don’t answer right away, partly because Simon just hit my G-spot, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming with pleasure as I rake my nails down his back. But claw marks on his shoulder blades would make things more awkward for his massage, so I somehow muster a reply.

  “Deep!” I choke out. “Really, really deep.”

  “Perfect!” Henrietta calls. “With some clients, I’ll even use an elbow to achieve maximum penetration.”

  Simon grins and lifts his arm, grazing my right nipple with his elbow. It’s an impressively dexterous maneuver, but not nearly as impressive as what he’s doing between my legs.

  “Whatever it takes!” I call to Henrietta while Simon quickens his pace.

  There’s a shuffling of footsteps outside the door, and I hold my breath. Maybe this is it. My prayers have been answered. Henrietta has moved on.

  But no, it’s not over yet. “May I ask about needing?”

  “Needing?”

  Right now, I’m needing Simon to stroke me just a few more times, because I can feel myself getting closer. little bubbles of light are bursting on the periphery of my vision, and his thumb is gliding over my clit like—

  “I use a lot of thumbs and knuckles in my petrissage, but if you prefer a gentler kind of kneading—”

  Oh, kneading. Good God, I’m going to lose it.

  I gasp and shove the knuckles of my left hand into my mouth, biting down to keep myself from crying out. Simon gives a sharp intake of breath, and I can tell he’s just a few beats behind me.

  We come together like that, Simon thrusting hard and deep and me arching against him and Henrietta prattling on about friction and vibration and rhythmic tapping and God knows what else.

  At last, Simon stops moving. I stop coming. And Henrietta stops talking. Did she leave?

  “Miss Michaels?”

  No such luck.

  “Yes?” My voice sounds dreamy and far away, and I close my eyes as Simon leans down to plant a kiss on my temple.

  “Just one more question,” Henrietta says. “I couldn’t help noticing you have a fair amount of hair on your legs.”

  I glance down. Sure enough, Simon’s bare legs are visible beneath the hem of his robe, and beneath the eighteen inches of space at the bottom of the stall door. Wonderful.

  “This isn’t a problem, of course,” Henrietta prattles on. “Certainly, I perform massage on all manner of body parts with hair or without hair. I just wanted to see how you would prefer me to—”

  “I’ll shave.”

  There’s a beat of silence outside, followed by Henrietta’s voice again. “Ma’am?”

  “No worries, I’ll just shave my legs. How about you give me just a few minutes to jump in the shower and get ready for the appointment?”

  “Oh. Yes, well. If you like.”

  “I like,” I say, stifling my laughter as Simon slides out of me and brushes a kiss over my shoulder. “I like very much.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Simon

  The rest of our getaway is amazing. Candlelit dinners. Midnight strolls under the stars. Mind-blowing sex on linen sheets so soft they feel like daffodil petals.

  It’s like something
out of a fucking fairy tale.

  Which is the reason I’m trying to tamp down the romance now that we’re back. We’re at Cassie’s house a week later eating greasy pizza straight from the box. We’re almost to the end of the list, and saying good-bye is going to be hard enough.

  De-romanticizing things might make it easier.

  I watch Cassie take a bite of pepperoni pizza, reminding myself that this is just a game. She’s just a woman. Nothing magical. Nothing I should consider risking Junie’s happiness to pursue like some kind of selfish—

  “I know I should change clothes first, but I’m starving!”

  Cassie grabs another piece of pizza out of the box on her coffee table and shoves half of it in her mouth at once. Holding a napkin under her mouth, she closes her eyes in bliss.

  I’m glad. It gives me a chance to study her. To commit every detail to memory. She wears tall leather boots and a pair of black skinny jeans that hug every delicious curve. Her sweater is a soft pink cashmere that she explained was a gift from the sisters when they all went shopping today.

  “We need to freshen up your wardrobe,” Cassie mimicked when she told me about it over the phone, her voice high in an imitation of Lisa.

  I don’t know that I’d like her sisters much, but I have to admit I like their taste in clothes. Pink is a great color on Cassie, and the sweater looks soft and touchable and—

  “You’re staring.” Cassie finishes chewing her pizza and swallows, then dabs at her mouth with a paper napkin.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  She grins. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls with a mouthful of pepperoni.”

  “It is kind of a turn-on.”

  I’m sure she thinks I’m kidding, but I’m not. I love seeing her like this. I love being cozied up beside her on the couch with a fire in the fireplace and a pizza in front of us. I could get used to this.

  No, goddammit. See? This is what I’m talking about. How can I say good-bye if I can’t stop ogling her like a love-struck dumbass?

  I pick up my own slice of pizza and take a bite. Cassie sets down her slice and boots up her laptop, then grabs the pizza again and takes another huge bite.