8. Jude

EIGHT

JUDE

I couldn't have heard her correctly, and I tucked a hank of hair behind my ear. "You want me to what ?"

"Practice on me," she repeated, though she kept her gaze down this time, focused on tossing away the butt of the joint.

"Practice what on you?"

She circled her hands like she didn't know what to do with them now that they were empty. "Your moves. Practice them on me."

I looked around, bemused, stunned…curious. "You're serious?"

"Yeah, I mean…" She shrugged. "If you're so anxious about it. Practice makes perfect."

This idea was ridiculous yet made sense. There was no one else I would be comfortable talking to about this.

Doing it with.

"Practice makes perfect," I agreed, trying and failing to bite back a smile. I felt delirious. "You're so high."

She grinned. "So are you."

I gestured between us. "Won't it be weird?"

"No. We're friends. Nothing's going to change that. "

"Even when I put on the charm?"

She laughed in my face, and I shot her a scowl, which only made her laugh harder, falling into my side. I hooked my arm around her neck, pulling her into a headlock, and she flailed.

"Is your move to make your girl pass out?" she panted in between giggles.

When I eventually let her go, she smiled at me, flushed and so pretty that I swore she shone. "Okay. Okay." She held out her hands, palms down, as if calming excited children or feral rodents. Basically the same thing. "Pretend I'm…what's her name?"

"Melissa."

"Pretend I'm Melissa and we're alone and you're feeling randy."

"Randy?"

"I hate the word horny."

"But is it worse than randy?"

She pursed her lips, thinking quite seriously. After a moment, she wrinkled her nose. "Add it to the list. Don't use horny or randy."

I wrote an imaginary list in the air. "Got it."

She crooked a smile my way. "So, I'm Melissa. How would you let me know you want to move things along?"

I swallowed, dragging my gaze over my friend. My buddy, whom I shouldn't have been attracted to. In that glossy gold top, displaying the rounded tops of her breasts, and dark jeans molded to her thighs. Without thinking, I reached out to her shoulder and skimmed the tip of my index finger along the thick strap of her tank top.

Her skin was soft and tanned from the sun. I flattened my hand, wrapping my fingers around her arm, feeling her skin warm under my palm. Her chest rose and fell with each of her breaths, the pendant on the end of her long necklace swaying ever so slightly. I grasped it in my other hand, lifting it up to admire it .

"This is nice," I said, forcing my eyes up to hers, finding them sort of unfocused.

"Thank you." She blinked slowly, throat bobbing on a swallow. "That was good. Really good. Holding on to my shoulder to keep me close while touching the necklace. It's an excuse for your fingers to be close to my chest. Very, very nice."

I dipped my chin, remembering myself. We were pretending. "So, uh…" I cleared my throat. "What now?"

She eased closer to me. "I guess it depends. You have to look for signs."

"Like what?"

She placed her hand on my thigh, a few inches above my knee. An example of a sign. A green light.

I turned more toward her, bringing my left knee up on the couch, confessing, "I feel like a kid again. Trying to figure everything out."

"That's okay." She urged me on, leaning into me, both of her hands my legs. "What did you do when you were a kid? Might work now," she said with a half laugh, and I thought back.

Fought through the haze of this new and puzzling desire creeping into my chest.

I remembered what it was like, standing outside of school on that day Mira finally said yes to me. I told Brooke, "I asked to kiss her."

She nodded encouragingly. "That's good. You could do that."

So I did. "Can I kiss you?"

She nodded again, her gaze on my mouth, and I didn't know which way was up anymore. I had no idea what I was doing. But I kissed her.

I kissed Brooke.

She squeaked out a surprised sound, ripping her hands away from me, and I immediately apologized. "Sorry. I didn't…" I shook my head, trying to center myself, but I had trouble. Especially with how my hands had involuntarily curled around both of her shoulders. "I got…confused."

Her eyes widened slightly, her cheeks pink. "No, it's fine. It's… I was surprised. But I can do better."

I slanted my head back. "You can do better?"

She shifted onto her knees, nodding. "Kiss me."

"You want me to kiss you?" I repeated then wiped my palms down my face.

How high was she?

How high was I ?

"I want you to kiss me," she said, and I could only blame my immediate reaction on the marijuana.

Because I kissed her again.

This time, she met me halfway, and I held her face in my hands. There was no surprise, no confusion. We were kissing .

She still tasted sweet like the chocolate of her brownie sundae when she opened her lips to me, allowing my tongue to find hers. I should have been reluctant or uncomfortable. This was the first woman I'd kissed in years, and yet all I felt was interest and awe and a need for more.

She smoothed her hands up either side of my ribs to my back, settling underneath my shoulder blades. The gentle weight of her palms urged me forward, and I followed. Or led.

I didn't understand the choreography of this new dance, yet I liked it. I knew that much.

And suddenly, we were horizontal, with more than enough room on this sofa that was entirely too comfortable, leaving me with no excuse to move from this position with my friend. With her hands searching under my T-shirt for my bare skin, I kissed down her throat, diligent about sucking on her skin hard enough to change her breath, but soft enough that I wouldn't leave a mark .

Then she wrapped her legs around my waist, and I settled my weight against her. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Do you want to keep going?" she asked breathlessly and possibly a little hopeful.

I held myself up above her, my hands on either side of her head, studying her for an indication she wanted to stop.

There wasn't any.

And when her honey eyes drifted between my own, I was positive she searched my gaze for hesitation.

There wouldn't be any.

"Yes," I said, more sure of that answer than I had been of anything in a long time.

Her lips parted on an exhale that seemed gratified, and she wasted no time, pulling my T-shirt up, forcing me back to my knees so I could help her remove it. Her attention floated over me, and I refused to cover up and be nervous, allowing her to look her fill of me, at the hair that covered my chest and my stomach that hadn't been flat in years. This was me .

She merely raised her gaze to mine and offered me a smile before shucking her own top. The bra she wore kept her breasts high and round, and I had to assume it wasn't very comfortable. So, I did the gentlemanly thing and found the clasp at her back to relieve her of it. She shrugged it off her shoulders and tossed it to the floor, appearing a bit shy now, awkwardly crossing her arms as if she had an itch on her neck that needed scratching. I peeled her fingers away from her throat and held her hands in mine. "You want to keep going?"

She licked her lips, and I'd bet all of my money she didn't know how sexy she was. "Yes."

Only then did I let my attention wander over her throat, down the long chain that hung between her breasts, like teardrops with small, dark-pink nipples.

"What would I do now?" I asked, altering our game a bit.

"Now you would touch her," she directed me quietly. "Let her know how much you want her…with your hands and mouth."

I cupped Brooke's breasts, dragging my thumbs back and forth over her nipples until they tightened, but I didn't stop. I kept going, caressing the undersides, lifting and weighing them in my hands, rediscovering all the things I loved about a woman. The curves, the softness, and the perfect sighs that they made.

Well, that Brooke made.

I forced my gaze up to her face, her eyes wide like melted caramel, and I kissed her again, our tongues tangling. She wrapped her arms around me, pulling me back down on top of her, and I didn't hesitate to suck one of her nipples into my mouth. She inhaled sharply, arching her back, and I skimmed my hand down her side, her skin hot under my touch, until I reached the waistband of her jeans.

I curled my index finger around a belt loop, tugging gently in silent question. When she nodded, I opened the button, pulled down the zipper, and stripped them off her legs, leaving her in only skimpy black underwear. I sat back to admire her. Brooke wasn't skinny, but she was solid, muscular from all of her physical labor. Her hips flared wide, giving way to thick thighs, and I slid my hands around them.

She bit into her lower lip, hesitating a moment before telling me, "Some women like to be grabbed. Hard."

I understood and grabbed her. Hard. Yanked her toward me. "Like that?"

Her answering sound of approval was the only thing I wanted to hear for the rest of my life.

I skated my fingers up and down her thighs and palmed the naked globes of her ass, wondering if she always wore thongs underneath her clothes. Under those worn overalls I pretended to hate but actually loved. Especially when she wrapped a bandanna around her hair. Like some 1950s farmer pinup .

I pulled off the tiny scrap of material, tossing it somewhere behind me, all my focus on how Brooke—my friend—spread her legs, propping her feet on the couch, allowing me to see everything .

The way her skin flushed from her face to her chest.

The surgical scars I knew she didn't like to show.

The triangle of dark hair between her legs.

She was beautiful, but still, I teased her.

"All natural, huh?" When her brow furrowed, I dragged my fingers over the horizontal scar on her lower abdomen to the patch of hair. "Like a '70s porno."

"You watch a lot of '70s porn?"

"What can I say? I enjoy classic cinema."

She cackled, flinging her foot out to kick me, but I caught it and pushed it down and back, forcing her legs on either side of me. She reached her arms up above her, holding on to the arm of the couch, and waited, unmoving.

I did too.

Until she told me, "You can touch me. However you want."

Only then did I rake my hands from her shoulders to her hips, lightly scraping her nipples with my fingernails. She seemed to like it, so I did it again. And again. Until she closed her eyes and swiveled her hips. I bent, pushing her breasts together, licking and sucking on each one until she moaned, wiggling underneath me.

That was when I inched my fingers downward, but she stopped me by putting her hand over mine. "I don't get wet."

"What?"

"I don't get wet anymore."

"Okay," I said because I didn't know how else to respond.

"Other guys, they think they can lick their fingers or something and it'll be fine. They think they'll be the ones to fix me. "

I shook my head, understanding now. "You don't need to be fixed."

Her face softened, the tension she'd been holding leaching from her body. Brooke was always so confident; I hadn't expected her to be worried about sex. And maybe she needed this too.

This practice…or whatever it was we were doing.

"What do you need?" I asked.

"Lube."

"For everything?"

She answered with a nod.

"All the time?"

"Yeah. Some guys get offended or something. Tom didn't?—"

"You don't need to explain it to me," I snapped, not because I was angry with her, but because of every man who had ever let her down. Made her think she was less than the flawless creature she was.

And it all made sense.

The few stories she'd told me, using vague language about her asshole ex not being "satisfied" and how she never felt connected with other men she'd had sex with. Every single one of them was a selfish prick.

I remembered the other purchases from the store tonight and stood up to retrieve the bag from the counter in the kitchen. I placed it on the side table next to the couch after pulling out the lube, eyeing her as I opened the box.

She still hadn't moved, and the trust she placed in me made my heart thud hard against my rib cage.

Once I had the small blue bottle in hand, I popped the top and squirted some onto my index and middle fingers before kneeling on the couch between her legs. "It's cold," I warned her as I lowered my fingers, dragging them down the seam of her pussy, and she gasped. "Told you."

She batted at my shoulder, laughing, but when I found her clit, her playful smile slipped, her fingers tightening on my arm. I circled my fingers around the tiny bud, and her breathing increased, her nipples pulled even tauter. I kept working her over, finding the rhythm she needed, as I squeezed her breast, lowering myself to her side, flicking at her nipple with my tongue.

She squirmed and let out a soft breath, a near hiss, wrapping her fingers around my forearm. Her fingernails bit into my skin, but I wasn't going anywhere, wasn't slowing down. Not when I could give her this release. Especially not when she deserved to be given everything she wanted.

"You close?" I asked, my voice a ghost of itself, my bottom lip catching on her peaked and wet nipple.

She nodded and whispered, "Keep going."

Like I'd ever stop.

I bent my head back down to her breast, earning more of her sounds, circling and circling my fingers. The lube made everything slick, the sound heating my already fast-flowing blood, and I didn't realize I'd been unconsciously bucking my hips against her leg until she threaded her arm between us to squeeze my erection over my shorts.

It had been years since anyone else had touched it, and I practically growled. My brain went fuzzy with white noise, and I tucked my face into Brooke's throat, breathing heavily when I felt her hand snake beneath my underwear. Then her fingers were there, wrapped around my hard cock.

"Not quite a rocket, but bigger than I would've guessed," she said against my ear, and I couldn't help but chuckle.

"Always a ballbuster. Even now."

And thank god for that.

I needed her to keep it light. Keep me here with her and not in my past.

I raised my head, our eyes meeting, and both of us stilled, acknowledging the importance of this moment. At least, that was what I assumed. She could've been mentally counting bushels of corn or something, and the idea of possibly wasting this opportunity made me refocus.

I kissed her as I pushed her hand away from me, but when she attempted to grip me again, I nipped at her lips. "After. You first." I held her wrist above her head so she couldn't try again, and her eyes sparkled with something I didn't understand. "What?"

"I like that." She tipped her head and arched her back, which pushed her breasts up toward me, and I left an openmouthed kiss between them.

"Like what? This?" I tightened my grasp on her wrist, and she nodded, a secretive smile crawling across her face. "Are you…" I lifted myself up a bit to get a better look at her. "Are you into…stuff?"

"Stuff?" She laughed at me. "Sure. I'm into stuff."

I had no idea. Not that we talked a lot about sex, but it had come up a handful of times in our conversations, and never once had she mentioned what she liked. Then again, she would have had no reason to because we were buddies.

Pals.

Best friends.

Who, up until this very moment, didn't cross any lines.

Yet we were so far past any line, we couldn't see one anymore. Probably wouldn't even be able to find our way back if we wanted to.

"Are you into stuff?" she asked, rotating her hips under my hand since I'd momentarily lost track of what I was doing. I gently pressed my fingers inside her, feeling how tight she was, offering her a few experimental thrusts before I went back to her clit, rubbing in the way she needed.

"I don't know," I said, finally answering her question. "I've never…" I'd never had complaints about my sex life, although thinking about it, I guessed it was pretty vanilla. "I've never really tried anything. "

Not that I was opposed to it, but it'd never come up before.

She only pressed a kiss against my lips, licking into my mouth like she wanted to soothe me, ease me back into the moment with her, and I was grateful. I moved my fingers faster, drawing a sharp intake of breath out of her, and I could tell she was close to orgasming from the way her kiss turned biting and then eventually mindless, merely her lips against mine, her panting breaths hot and fast.

And then I felt it, the rigid tensing of her limbs and release of it all with a sigh. She relaxed under me, crashing her head back to the cushion, her face, neck, and chest red. I let go of her wrist and dragged my palm down her arm and between her breasts as she blinked her eyes open to me. Her smile nothing short of beatific.

"All right, honeybee?"

"Very all right." She pushed up, reaching for the elastic of my athletic shorts, jerking it down to get to my boxer briefs, the outline of my erection visible through the light-gray cotton. She folded those down too, allowing my cock to jut out toward her. On my knees, I was slightly higher than her, and she tipped her head back. I swore it felt like an electrical shock when she leaned forward, licking the dot of moisture off the tip.

Still, I didn't look away. She didn't either.

She wrapped her hand tightly around my thick length, pulling, and I shook my head. "I won't last long."

"It's okay," she said and lay back down, widening her legs in invitation.

I turned around, intent on grabbing the box of condoms, but she stopped me with a quiet reminder. "I can't get pregnant."

I faced her again, brows raised. "You don't want to use one?"

"We can, but I can't get pregnant and haven't had sex in over a year." I didn't need to tell her how long it'd been for me. She knew. "I'm okay with it if you're okay with it."

Again, the trust. It made my chest ache with how much she gave me, how much faith she put in me. And perhaps it was because we were such good friends. What we had was more than a fling or a one-night stand, and she knew I'd never hurt her. Like she'd never hurt me.

"Okay," I agreed and opened the bottle of lube again, squeezing some onto my fingers to spread along my shaft. I wiped my fingers off on my discarded T-shirt before settling over her. She brought her knees up to her sides, and I notched the shiny head of my cock at her entrance.

"Tell me if it hurts or you need more lube," I instructed, and she draped her arms over my shoulders.

"You tell me if you need to stop," she said, and I rested my forehead to hers, silently thanking her for being so understanding and uncomplicated.

I kissed her once then pushed in, both of us gasping. There was no shattering earthquake or dark thunderstorm like I feared might overcome me the first time I had sex again. There was only heat and pleasure and the embrace of Brooke's arms around me.

Inch by inch, I entered her, until eventually, I was seated completely inside, and she wrapped her legs around my waist, holding me tight to her, one hand roaming over my back, the other combing through my hair.

"It's okay to let go," she whispered into my ear. "I've got you."

I closed my eyes to the sting behind them and gave in, grunting with each drive. It was exactly like I remembered yet not at all the same. The sensations—being so tightly wrapped up inside and outside—brought me quickly to the brink, faster than I would have liked. But I didn't have time to be embarrassed because Brooke was kissing me, my shoulder, my cheek, my mouth, my throat, murmuring encouraging words about how good it felt and not to wait for her. To come.

"Come, Jude," she rasped. "Come for me." She tugged at my hair, forcing my eyes to hers. "Let go of everything and come for me."

And I did.

I flew off the mountaintop I'd been so afraid to climb. I came inside Brooke with a shudder and sank all of my weight on top of her to roll us onto our sides. I tucked my face into her neck, breathing in her lavender scent while she skimmed her fingernails up and down my spine, helping my heart rate to return to normal.

We stayed like that for a while until she needed to use the bathroom. She scooped up her clothes on the way, and I stood in the middle of the room, cataloging everything, hunting for physical evidence of my betrayal.

I found none.

I cleaned up with a few tissues and dressed, waiting for the shame to hit.

It didn't.

I slumped back down on the couch, where I'd had sex with a woman who was not my wife—where I'd enjoyed having sex with someone who wasn't my wife—and absently rubbed at my tattoo. At Brooke's suggestion, I'd had the word albi inked in Arabic on my left wrist a few years ago.

To honor my heart, my wife…

Joni Mitchell's witchy voice filled the room, singing a melancholy song about clouds and illusions and love, and I rested my elbows on my knees, letting my head fall between my shoulders. I had always assumed the guilt I'd become familiar with whenever the prospect of dating came up would triple when it came time for sex. But I didn't feel any guilt whatsoever.

And that made me feel sick to my stomach.

Brooke didn't make a sound when she entered the room again, didn't say anything as she sat next to me and slid her arm around my shoulders, didn't offer anything besides what she always did: herself.

She towed me into her, and I finally succumbed to my tears. She wrapped her arms around me, hugging me, petting me, allowing me to dampen her skin and tank top as I cried against her shoulder. She had the right to be offended or upset I was acting like this after we'd just had sex; she probably needed some time to process as well. But as always, she gave her comfort to me instead. Gave me a moment to come to terms with what we'd done. What I'd done.

I didn't know how long we stayed like that, but when I eventually stopped crying, she pushed my hair back from my face, wiped her thumbs under my eyes, and smiled.

She smiled .

Then she turned off the lights, locked up, and we ambled outside together, my arm around her shoulders. At her car, I pulled her in for a hug and kissed her temple. She rubbed my back and tugged on my beard. I closed the door after her and waved as she backed away before getting into my own car.

It was almost as if nothing had happened tonight.

When, really, everything had happened.

Everything had changed.