Twice Upon a Blue Moon (18 page)

She aborted that line of thought. No matter how sexy, how twisted, it wouldn’t be right.

Hazel ground out a moan when she felt Ward scrape his teeth deliciously against her jugular. She tangled one hand in his shirt and the other in his hair, holding him in place.

Ward surged into the kiss when she tightened her fingers, dropping his hips to hers. Sensation shorted out Hazel’s breaths. Ward was half hard already, erection tenting the flimsy fabric of his sleep pants.

A flood of liquid heat settled low in Hazel’s belly as their caresses grew increasingly frantic. She had to bring one arm down so that Ward could slide the strap of her tank top from her shoulder, which seemed as good a reason as any to drag her fingertips down the arch of his spine and dig her fingernails in when he bent his mouth to her breast.

The way he swirled his tongue around her nipple was
all
Dylan. The thought should have made Hazel feel ashamed, but all she could think of was how good it felt. She wondered belatedly if Dylan and Ward had slept with the same woman before. It didn’t seem to matter that much once Ward started sucking in earnest.

Hazel curled her toes into the bedding, hips arching helplessly. He wasn’t gentle about it. The soft, snug circle of his lips contrasted with the rough swipe of his tongue and the sharp pressure of teeth, much in the same way that Dylan’s leather crop had elicited small, pained noises that quickly gave way to rapturous delight.

Ward liberated her of her tank top and bra in short order, then sat back on his haunches—a wild look in his eyes—and skimmed his fingertips to her panties. Something in his expression told Hazel that this was her last chance to get off the rollercoaster ride. She arched her back, twisting to make it easier on him to remove her underwear. Take-backs were not an option.

He wasted no time throwing the scrap of silk over the edge of the bed and palming her sex with a rough—almost proprietary—hand. He wasn’t gentle about it.

Hazel threw her head back. “Fuck, yes…”

Dylan had put his mouth on her after trussing her up in his playroom. She expected something similar from Ward.

It wasn’t to be.

He took her knees in his hands and slid his broad palms to her ankles, where he seized a rough hold. Air turned to soup in her lungs as he nudged her none too gently onto her belly.

A shiver of anticipation, half dread and half desire, skittered down Hazel’s spine, but she moved with him. She didn’t think to offer resistance.

Submission was deeply ingrained, part of the way she’d always been with her partners. She couldn’t make up the difference now.

The bedside drawer jerked open, then slammed shut. Foil crinkled. Hazel pushed herself up onto her elbows and twisted around at the waist.

Ward caught her eye as he slid a condom down his stiff cock. He was thicker than she’d expected and he tended slightly to the left. Unlike Dylan, he was also uncircumcised.
My first,
Hazel thought deliriously, and obediently turned her head when Ward sank a hand into her hair and pulled—and pulled.

He had her arch her spine as far as she could stand before lightly caressing her sex with his length. The latex slid wetly against her folds, spikes of pleasure stabbing at her clit when he zeroed in on that tiny, engorged nub of flesh.

Dylan might have asked if she was sure before thrusting inside. Ward did not. He held her still as he aligned them, then rocked his hips forward. There was nowhere for Hazel to go—not that she would’ve wanted to—and the illusion of being immobilized cranked her engine in an all-too-primitive sort of way.

It was the leather swing all over again, only this time she wasn’t afraid of bringing down the shoddy metal rigging. She wasn’t worried about making a fool of herself. A moan tore from her throat as he slid in deep, one smooth movement joining them almost to the hilt.

Ward reached for her right arm without warning. Also without warning, he tugged on her wrist until Hazel had no choice but to remove it from the mattress. She panted, torn between the sharp sting in her scalp and the low, delicious burn in her nether regions—and now the distant fear of falling face first into the bed sheets. Ward withdrew slowly, only to press back in, hard and deep, curling her toes with a flash of delight. His grunts and hissing breaths speared the silence of the bedroom.

Sweat gathered in Hazel’s collarbones and dripped from her upper lip to her tongue. She barely tasted the salt as euphoria coiled around her, slow at first, then faster and faster, a supernova building in the pit of her stomach. Ward fucked her at a merciless pace. She didn’t think she could come without at least a little clitoral stimulation—it hadn’t happened before, anyway—but Ward didn’t give her much wiggle room. The vise-tight grip he held on her forearm coupled with the rapid-fire snap of his hips and the staccato burst of their ragged breaths marched her right up to the edge.

Pleasure soared, that familiar sense of coming untethered from her own body seeping into her bloodstream like a drug.

She was dimly aware of nonsensical pleas spilling from her tongue, but she had little thought for what, exactly, she was saying. Orgasm struck gradually, crumbling her defenses bit by bit. Every muscle in her body locked tight. Her left arm gave out as Ward released his grip on her hair, but she wasn’t allowed to sink down to the bed.

Ward grasped her hips with both hands, slamming into her with jagged grunts. Aftershocks ignited beneath Hazel’s skin, sensation running the gamut from too much to not enough, then back again. Tighter and tighter, Ward angling just right to brush against her G-spot, until Hazel didn’t know if what she was feeling was just the aftermath of her first orgasm or another burst of bliss bubbling in her veins. She made a noise halfway between a plea and a mangled iteration of Ward’s name, distantly aware of his rhythm falling apart as he chased his own high.

It was that as much as anything else that fanned the smoldering coals of her arousal.

There was nothing of Dylan in the way Ward let himself crumble, his breaths hot on Hazel’s shoulder blade. He rocked into her with sharp, sloppy jerks, even as he came down from his high, holding her captive where she lay.

Hazel turned her head against the tangled bed sheets and blew out the strands of snarled hair in her eyes. She couldn’t see much of Ward, just the top of his head, dirty-blond hair sticky with perspiration and the curve of his right eyebrow, cocked as if in surprise. His other eyebrow seemed out of commission.

“So,” she breathed, “are we going to blame the whiskey for this, too?”

She almost feared that Ward hadn’t heard her. Then his body shook against hers, a guffaw creeping out from deep in his belly. “Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

Hazel thought so, but then again, she wasn’t really talking about the whiskey.
I just fucked my maybe-boyfriend’s significant other.
What would the campus flyers have to say about that?

Chapter Thirteen

While Ward endeavored to get breakfast going, Hazel retreated to the shower. She was unconvinced that Dylan and Ward stocked anything edible in their minimalist kitchen, but the morning had been rich in surprises already. She welcomed a moment of respite. Orgasm had left her slick and sluggish, her knees creaking as she shivered under the warm spray.

Okay. That really happened.

The vain, gleeful thought of calling Sadie flashed through her mind. It was usually the other way around—Sadie indulging in ill-fated one-night stands while Hazel held the moral high ground—and she didn’t think it likely that something like this would happen again.

She used Ward’s shampoo and body wash, bathing herself in his woodsy scent like the traitor she was. The bathroom was all black tile and gleaming mirrors. Six spotlights cast their warm glow over the shiny floor, neither blinding nor making the room seem drab and cavernous. Everything about the loft was perfectly calibrated for luxury. Even the joints between the sleek marble slabs had been buffed to a shine—no doubt by some specialized cleaning company.

Not for the first time, Hazel recognized that she was completely out of her depth.

She set aside the thought as she wrapped herself in a fluffy gray towel and wrung out her hair. She had every intention of getting dressed as soon as she returned to the bedroom, but the sound of Ward’s voice downstairs stopped her short.

Red flags sprouted like mushrooms after rain.

She lingered at the top of the stairs for a long moment, flexing her toes into the wooden boards. There was no second voice, no sign that Ward had welcomed some other visitor into the loft while she was showering.

“You wouldn’t believe who I ran into last night,” he boasted.

Hazel’s heart performed a complicated Cirque du Soleil-worthy somersault. “Let’s call her your favorite kind of nut… What? Isn’t that enough of a hint?”

Hazel perked up her ears, but no matter how she strained, she couldn’t discern the voice on the other end of the line. The penny only dropped when Ward named the speaker.

“I stand corrected. Oh, relax. She’s actually not that bad, Dylan. We’re getting along like a house on fire.”

Dylan?
Hazel steadied herself with a hand on the banister. She wanted to sit down before her knees buckled. She wanted to go downstairs and snatch the phone out of Ward’s hands. Why hadn’t Dylan called her? What was he waiting for?

Ward laughed, a strange and unfettered sound, more heartfelt than his habitual snigger. “All right, man, I’ll let you get some sleep… If you have to ask, then you don’t know me at all.” He ended on a scoff, his cell sliding to the kitchen counter with a telltale click.

Hazel padded the rest of the way downstairs. “How is he?”

“Jesus!” Ward jumped back from the French press, one hand pressed to his ribcage as though to keep his heart from leaping out. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You’ll live.
“Ward.”

“He’s fine! Peachy fucking keen.” The Ward who had lain in bed and laughed with her less than an hour ago was nowhere to be seen. This was his familiar twin, Mr. Hyde. “He’s flying back Friday.”

“Isn’t that early? I thought he was staying until the end of the weekend—”

Ward waved a hand. “Change of plans, I suppose. No doubt he’ll give you all the details as soon as he lands.”

Unfazed by Ward’s snippy tone, Hazel slotted onto a padded leather stool by the breakfast area of the kitchen island. The steel footrest was cold beneath her bare toes. She curled one foot into the other, holding up the towel with her arms tucked close around her body. This was one conversation that couldn’t wait for clothes.

“Did you tell him?”

To his credit, Ward didn’t feign ignorance. “A trans-Pacific phone call doesn’t really seem like the best venue to inform my best friend that I’ve fucked his girlfriend, does it?” He slid a dainty, square cup before her and filled it with steaming black coffee from the French press. “Like I said, he’ll be back Friday. You can tell him all about how I plied you with liquor then.”

Hazel nearly spat her coffee all over the granite countertop. “How you did what?” She wiped her lips with the back of a hand. “Is this delayed-effect hangover?”

Ward’s scowl broadened, features dark behind the rim of his cup, but he didn’t reply.

“So that’s what you want to go with? Coercion?” The pit fell out of her stomach. Ward’s white knighting notwithstanding, his sudden martyrdom threw her for a loop. “You and I must remember last night very differently. I seem to recall
asking
for a glass of whiskey.”
And for the five that followed.

Stubborn, Ward stuck to his guns—namely silence and sneer.

They left Hazel in an unprecedented predicament. “You’re kidding me, right?”
I slept with you because I wanted to, asshole. You think I can’t tell the difference between being badgered and being accommodated?

“You should leave,” Ward said, speaking to his mug more so than to Hazel.

“You’re throwing me out? That’s a low blow… Even for you.” All the snappy comebacks in the world couldn’t take away the sting of his glare or the arch dismissal in those three little words.

Ward wanted her gone.

Speaking to Dylan must’ve done a number on him. Hazel’s ego was too bruised for her to give a damn. She pushed away from the kitchen island, leaving behind delicious coffee and stuck-up, spineless one-night stand. Her bare feet and long towel prevented a dramatic exit—all the more reason to let aggravation simmer in her bloodstream. Hazel donned last night’s clothes in haste.

“Do you need a—?”

“No,” she snapped, tugging on her ankle boots. “I don’t need anything from you.” Her wet hair spilled across her shoulder as she straightened, momentarily obscuring Ward from view. She spun around with one hand on the loft door, meeting his glower with one of her own. “Call me when you grow a pair.”

As she wrenched open the door, Hazel caught one last glimpse of Ward. He was calmly drinking his morning coffee, a now-familiar scowl twisting at his features.

* * * *

Time seemed to slow dramatically over the course of the following week. Hazel embraced the routine of home, diner, home, rebuffing Sadie’s attempts to coax her to a club again. Her last attempt had left a pleasant ache between her legs and a not so pleasant throbbing in her chest.

She didn’t call Ward.

The urge came and went, mostly when she was stuck at a red light or tossing and turning in bed. And just as she didn’t call him, Dylan didn’t deign to call her.

Solitude had never been particularly enjoyable, but it was worse after a brief glimpse of the alternative. There were nights when Hazel woke up thinking she was back at the loft, one insignificant part of Dylan’s strange, unorthodox relationship with Ward. Then she’d open her eyes and glimpse the lump of the laundry hamper in the corner of the bedroom or the twisted aluminum blinds—or the apartment across the street, with its shriveled azaleas in cracked window boxes. Flashes of her drab, lonely bedroom plucked her from the arms of Morpheus. They made for a rude awakening.