“This definitely isn’t a surprise to me,” one of Ford’s guy friends said after we’d all gone through a bottle of champagne. “You two have been friends for ages.”
“Totally,” one of the girls said. “It makes perfect sense. A lot more sense than Claud—” But she was cut off from speaking the name of She Who Must Not Be Named by her friend.
“I knew you guys were banging,” another girl said, her voice a sotto whisper close to my ear. “I mean, how could you and Ford be friends for so long and not be?”
The girl who’d been elbowed into silence a second ago laughed. “Too true.”
“We weren’t—” I started to correct, and then remembered myself. Better to lean into the speculation. After all, if people wanted to think that Ford and I had been carrying on some secret affair, it could only lend more credibility to our quickie engagement and marriage.
I cleared my throat.
“We weren’t telling anyone,” I said, leaning my head on Ford’s shoulder in a way that I hoped seemed couple-y. “What can I say? We’re good at keeping things hush-hush.”
“At least I am,” Ford interjected with a wicked leer. “Em’s actually a bit of a screamer.”
Everyone laughed and Ford accepted high fives.
I felt my face go hot, and I couldn’t help feeling equally thrilled and uncomfortable at Ford’s casual discussion of our fictional sex life.
Okay, maybe more thrilled than uncomfortable. Especially when I imagined what sort of things Ford would do to make me scream.
Like pulling me into the alley behind the club and pressing me up against the wall, his hands sliding up the back of my short dress until he discovered that I was wearing a thong.
Or sneaking me into one of the unisex bathrooms with him, bending me over the sink, my dress hiked up to my waist, his jeans around his knees as he thrust into me from behind, his fingers twisting my nipples hard and perfect.
No, I couldn’t think about that. Though it was hard not to when we were constantly touching. And God, was his touch provocative. Especially as the night wore on, and the group began to migrate from our little VIP corner onto the dance floor.
I’d never noticed how tactile Ford was until tonight. Or no, I guess I had. I’d certainly noticed how often he touched his previous girlfriends, like Claudia. It had been hard not to get jealous over the way they’d always been all over each other. How different—and amazing—it was to suddenly be on the other side of that. And also, how confusing.
Ever since we’d left my apartment, Ford’s hands had barely left my body. He either had his fingers linked with mine or he was looping an arm around my waist or dragging a finger across the sensitive skin of my collarbone or my earlobe or my bare shoulder. He also liked to tug the ends of my hair, sending sparks of electricity dancing across my scalp. God.
It was even more intense when we danced. He loved to pull me close, his hips moving provocatively against mine, his palms hot against the thin fabric of my dress, cupping all my curves. He kept touching my ass too, his fingers sliding boldly over the crease between my cheeks, as if he was memorizing my body. Every last inch of it.
My pulse was hammering, my skin buzzing at every point of contact, and the place between my legs was aching and undeniably wet. The air in the club felt hot and thick, and even though I’d only had a glass of champagne and a single shot, I felt drunk. Drunk on desire. Drunk on lust. Drunk on Ford.
There was only so much I could take.
Midway through the night, after dancing chest-to-chest and thigh-to-thigh with Ford had me riled up enough that I knew I needed to step away, I excused myself and went to the bathroom. Once I was there, I pressed a wet paper towel to the back of my neck and between my breasts, trying to cool down and calm the sexual thoughts wreaking havoc on all of my senses. Then I freshened up my makeup and strutted back toward our table.
I was just in time to catch the tail end of a conversation Ford was having with one of his best buddies. Someone he’d been especially close with in high school. The music was loud so I only caught a few words, but what I thought I heard was him asking Ford, “Does Emzee know about that?”
It was enough to stop me in my tracks at the edge of the VIP area. The words were said so conspiratorially that I almost didn’t want to ask, but obviously I needed to know the truth.
“Know about what?” I asked loudly.
Ford’s friend immediately looked up at me, but before he could answer, Ford flashed him a look I didn’t catch and then grinned at me, answering, “About how big my dick is.”
Everyone laughed, reverting back to poking fun at me and Ford, and the moment to delve deeper was lost. I laughed too, even though I was sure they’d been talking about something else. The look Ford had given his friend was definitely suspicious, but the group had once again moved on to dirty talk, which I couldn’t help focusing on.
Not just the way it made me feel—which, yeah, it made me go hot and tingly in all the right places—but also about Ford’s motives with all of this.
Was this how he always joked around about the women he was dating? Or was he laying it on thick because he was trying to push the lie?
Or…what if he was expecting something from me that I couldn’t give?
I’d been firm with him about us not sleeping together, but I didn’t have enough experience with actual sex to know what would happen afterward. Would it really hurt our relationship if we ended up getting together like that? I was starting to think I should at least consider the possibility.
Especially if Ford was as good in bed as he thought he was.
