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But only if everyone is good this weekend. Not because I'm putting my desires second. Because I want everyone to have fun. And I really don't want friction between my best friend and my favorite brother.
"Are you sure?" I'm not sure which of them I'm asking. Only that I know neither of them wants to complicate things with a tryst.
"Am I sure I don't want to hear"—Daphne hums the song we were writing over Christmas—"again? Oh, I'm sure." She pats me on the shoulder. "Go get 'em tiger." She motions to Damon, as he walks toward us.
"Hey." He looks down at me with eager eyes.
"Hey yourself." I reach for him.
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a tight embrace.
"See. Disgusting. Okay. See you crazy kids for the party." Daphne blows us a kiss. She looks to Jackson. "You don't really want to walk the entire strip?"
"It's a nice day," he says.
"It's ninety degrees," she says.
"It's dropping. The low is fifty tonight."
"Did you check that?" she asks.
"I always check," he says.
"So you can decide if you wear a suit or khakis?" she teases.
"Oh no." He laughs. "That's if the occasion is casual or formal."
"What if it's a hot casual occasion?" she asks. "Do you break out the shorts?"
"Is that a request?" he teases.
Oh my god, is my brother seriously flirting with Daphne? Gross.
I turn back to them. "I thought you were getting lost?"
"Yeah, yeah, go make out in peace," Daphne says. She pats Jackson's shoulder and leads him toward the elevators.
They wheel their suitcases together.
They certainly look like a couple, walking next to each other, somehow matching and not matching at all. She has a hot pink suitcase, and she's wearing denim shorts and a breezy white tank. He has a black suitcase (of course), and he's wearing linen pants and a white linen shirt (also, of course).
They both have that aura of intellect, what with his glasses and the sci-fi stickers on her suitcase, but they express it in very different ways.
The doctor and the lawyer.
It makes sense.
But they're not—
No way.
"Where are you going, baby?" Damon rubs my bare arms with his palms.
"You don't think they…"
"Jackson? No. The guy is a monk." Damon leans in to brush my lips to his. "He makes our instructor look like a party boy."
That is true. And it doesn't matter. It's their life. Not mine. And neither one of them has made the sort of bad relationship decisions I made in the past. They're better at making the smart choice. "Okay. Let's go upstairs."
"Let's give them a minute," he says. "So I can start undressing you in the elevator."
"You know there's a security camera in the ceiling," I say.
"Baby, I'm counting on it."
Tragically, the elevator is packed. Between our suitcases and Damon's guitar, we barely fit into the thing. And there are a million stops. A family gets off on four. A bachelor party gets off on seven. A couple gets off on thirteen. And then probably in their room.
It's just us and a solo traveler in a Las Vegas t-shirt and shorts. He nods a nice to see you and gets off on fifteen.
The second the doors slide shut, Damon pins me to the wall. He kisses me hard, swirling his tongue around mine as he slips his hands under my dress.
"You wore that to drive me crazy, didn't you, baby?" He brings his lip to my ear as his fingers brush my inner thigh.
"Yes." This is the short, sexy black sundress I wore for our reunion meeting. I did pick it because I knew he'd want to take me. But I also picked it for me. "A little. Mostly, I wore it to drive myself crazy."
"Fuck, Cass." He presses his palm against me. Over my panties, but still, the friction is divine.
I have to close my eyes.
I have to let out a low sigh.
Then he slips his thumb under the soft fabric, and I nearly come from the pressure of his digit against my clit.
"More," I groan.
The elevator groans in protest. The car arrives. The doors slide open.
There's no one in the wide hallway, but the possibility of an audience still winds me tighter. I'm an exhibitionist. It's true.
We don't usually play these games in public. Not this public, anyway. We use mirrors or cameras. We attend bars and parties where this sort of behavior is within normal.
A few times, we fucked in a band's dressing room during their set.
And once in an empty office at my dad's work.
That was pretty fucked up.
And extremely hot.
And, we, uh…
Well, there is something we might do here.
"Are you still game?" I ask before I lose the nerve. Not that I can lose it before I come. No. I'm wound far too tight.
"Right here?" His voice drops an octave. His pupils dilate. "We'll get arrested."
