Screwed (V-Card Diaries 2)

“You’re going to like this one,” he says, perching on the arm of the couch. “It involves two of your favorite people, an adventure away from the lodge, and the best fish and chips in the state of New York.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I didn’t realize New York was known for fish and chips.”

“It’s not. But this place has a solid rep. And one of your favorite people has been craving chips with vinegar and salt, and I’m determined to make her dream come true. Also, I really like English beer and this pub has fifteen UK beers on tap.”

The words summon a memory to the surface of my mind. Gram always said if she were going to open a restaurant near her coastal home, it would be a fish and chips shack so she could get her daily dose of sour and salty, Brit-style French fries.

“You planned a surprise for Gram?” I ask, my heart softening even as the rest of me continues to tingle because Derrick is only a few feet away, and I’m wearing nothing but a t-shirt and panties under these covers.

He shrugs mysteriously. “Maybe. If you want to find out, you’d better hurry and get dressed. The Derrick Olsen tour bus leaves in thirty minutes.”

“You only gave me thirty minutes to get ready?” I screech, throwing off the covers and springing out of the bed. “I need to shower!”

“No, you don’t.” His gaze drops to where my legs emerge from my t-shirt. It just barely covers my panties, and it’s clear Derrick’s noticed. His eyes darken as he adds, “You look good and smell even better.”

“You can’t smell me from all the way over there,” I say, sounding breathless.

But hopefully he’ll think it’s because he’s shocked me awake, not because I’m fantasizing nonstop about him slipping his hand down the front of my panties.

My thoughts are still in my panties, however, when he executes a graceful ninja-roll across the mattress and pops up beside me. Before I can step back, he wraps his arm around my waist and bends his head, bringing his nose so close to my neck, I can feel his breath on my skin as he pulls in a deep breath.

“Yep, as I thought,” he says, exhaling the words against my throat. “You smell amazing. Like soap and sleep and…Harlow.”

“What does Harlow smell like?” I murmur, my nipples tightening against my t-shirt. The urge to press closer to him is nearly irresistible but I fight to maintain control. If I take a single step down that road, I’m doomed.

“Like vanilla,” he says, inhaling again, “and summer grass. And fall leaves before they get cold and wet. And a hint of honey, the spicy kind they sell at farmers’ markets that still has some of the bee funk swirled in.”

I pull back far enough to catch his gaze. “I’m not sure smelling like funky honey is a compliment, Satan.”

“It absolutely is a compliment. I love that smell, and don’t call me that,” he says, his hand skimming lower on my back, until it’s resting on the upper curve of my ass and my heart is slamming against my ribs. “Or you’re going to get a spanking and be late for your surprise.”

I arch a brow, shocked to find my panties even wetter than they were a second before. “You wouldn’t dare.”

His hand dips lower still, making my sex pulse like a second heart between my thighs. “Oh, yeah? Try me, Bossy. Call me Satan again and you’re going to find yourself over my knee with your panties around your ankles.”

I swallow past the turned-on moan trying to rise in my throat.

I want to call his bluff so badly I can feel the word “Satan” forming on my lips, but instead I bite the inside of my cheek until I’m positive I’m not going to do something crazy. “Fine, pookie-kins. No more ‘S’ word. But if you don’t let me go, there’s no way I’ll be ready in time. Even if I do skip a shower.”

He pulls his arm from my waist—a little reluctantly, I think—and nods toward the bathroom. “You now have twenty-five minutes. Make the most of them. Dress warmly, but don’t worry about prolonged outdoor exposure. We won’t be out in the snow for long.”

Intrigued, and still horny as all get out, I back toward the bathroom. “Where are we going? Please, tell me. I’m a girly girl, I need to plot my wardrobe choices to match my venue.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. It’s a surprise. Just dress the way you dress for dinner at the lodge. You’ll look perfect, as usual.”

Perfect.

He thinks I’m perfect.

My inner awkward tween, the one who thought Derrick was the cutest boy she’d ever seen in real life, but who realized he’d never look twice at an eleven-year-old with braces and persistent chin acne, is way too excited about that. She’s practically bouncing off the fucking walls, in fact, but it’s the adult part of me I’m most worried about.