Christ, she feels amazing. I shouldn’t compare, shouldn’t remember other nights, but nothing has ever felt this good. I pull her close to me, my arms guiding her hips as she rides me hard and fast, her arms thrown around me. She’s not letting go, either. She buries her face in my throat, whispering, biting down, her whole body tightening on mine as she pants and groans.
Just riding my dick probably won’t be enough. I reach between us and find her clit, drawing tiny, dirty circles around her. Hazel moves faster.
Her nails dig into my shoulders as she freezes, her body clenching hard. “Jack...yes.”
I pound into her, my hips matching the rhythm of hers. I feel the heartbeat that springs to life between her legs, the tight pulsing of her body as she grips me, the hot, electric pleasure that has us both making rough, feral sounds. There’s nothing pretty or planned about this and I’m so fucking triumphant, like her Viking man after he’s pounded ashore and seized the castle.
I brace my feet against the floor and shove deeper. She slams down to meet me. “Harder,” she growls. “Make me feel, Jack. Make me—”
She’s amazing.
She shuts up, her body stiffening as she yanks me closer, and then she’s coming and I’m not far behind her. We’re not quite in sync, but this is even better. I feel every pulse of her orgasm before I follow her over the edge and empty myself into her.
“Tell me you came.” If she didn’t, I’ll just start again and get it right.
“Yes.” She nods enthusiastically.
I fall back onto the big, wonderful bed, taking her with me. My heart’s trying to claw its way out of my chest and I can feel the answering beat from Hazel’s. Her hair’s all messed up, her face flushed. We’re a hot, sticky mess and all I can think is
Yes
Let’s do this again
Right now
Hazel exhales noisily into my chest. “Wow. That was...”
She flounders, looking for adjectives.
I know how she feels. “Everything. It was everything.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
SUNDAY IS MY new favorite day. Hazel and I have a standing sleepover date on Saturday evening and then we hang out on Sunday. Sometimes we pile into bed and work next to each other on our laptops with cartons of takeout and champagne, or we lug everything down to the beach if we’re at my place. Usually I can be productive no matter where I find myself. The train, stuck in traffic, a blanket on the sand near the ocean—it doesn’t matter. I put my head down and focus because I have a lot to accomplish and time doesn’t wait.
Being with Hazel, however, is its own challenge. Half of my brain looks at her and sees my business partner. That’s the smart half, the half that thinks and plans. It suggests we should get to work. The other half of me, however, argues that working is the last thing I should do when I could be getting Hazel naked. Getting inside her. Unfortunately, that half is a really persuasive arguer and our beachy work sessions always seem to end with us naked.
This is why, when Hazel suggests we work outside at her house, I refuse. I don’t care if there’s an ancient Japanese-forest bathing ritual—I’ve seen what lurks in Hazel’s trees and there’s no way I’m lounging around on the ground. Even she has to agree that everything ends with sex. But I’m not complaining. After all, that’s the whole purpose of this friendship with benefits. We hang, we do the business thing and then it’s orgasms for all.
Four weekends after our first not-date, it’s my turn to host. Saturday night we have a business dinner with some other Silicon Valley influencers. Not touching Hazel is torture. Afterward, I drive us to my place, but Hazel’s brimming with ideas sparked by the dinner meeting and she can’t not hunker down with her laptop and start working through them.
It’s cute, plus she usually has great ideas. I’m not going to get in her way. I don’t say anything as she climbs into my bed, arms wrapped around her laptop. I just grab my own laptop, fetch us both a cognac and prop the French doors open so we can hear the ocean. Turns out we do awesome bedroom brainstorming. Hazel’s definitely on to something we’ll chase next week at work. It almost makes waiting to touch her worth it.
I get up when Hazel waves her empty glass in my direction as she mutters at her screen. Since I can take a hint, I find the cognac, splash a few inches into her glass and decide it’s too much effort to go downstairs for ice.
When I turn around, Hazel’s made herself comfortable. She’s sprawled on her stomach, the T-shirt she stole from my closet slipping down one bare shoulder. Kissing her seems way more fun than the twelve spreadsheets she has open on her desktop. I set the cognac on the floor a safe distance from the bed because we tend to send the pillows and blankets flying when we have sex.
Hazel’s still distracted when I duck underneath the covers at the bottom of the bed and slide up. I run my hands over her legs and she shrieks. Hazel’s super ticklish, which is both funny and fun. I press more firmly, the way she likes, then press her down into the mattress with my body and convince her to take a break.
Sunday sunshine pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows in my bedroom. The California king bed is loaded with crisp white cotton sheets, a white duvet and a small army of pillows, because—like orgasms—one is never enough for Hazel and she “hooked me up” with pillows after our first sleepover. Hazel is currently starfished in the center, taking full advantage of my absence. When I slid in beside her last night, she wrapped herself around me like a baby monkey.
She’s sleeping hard, her hair ruffled around her face. After she
