Home > My Favorite Half-Night Stand(4)

My Favorite Half-Night Stand(4)
Author: Christina Lauren

I think she wants a rating on her backside, but it’s probably clear from my expression that I’d give her high marks. “What’s with you tonight?”

A bare shoulder lifts and drops. “I’m tipsy.”

This makes me bark out a laugh. “ ‘Tipsy’? I’d be amazed if Chris has any wine left in his house.”

“Don’t blame that on me,” she says. “You’re the one who went and got tenure. Besides, Ed took down two bottles by himself, and Alex was pouring mine.”

“Ed’s blood is ninety percent alcohol.”

“And ten percent Cheeto dust.”

She moves over to me, waters in hand, and the only way to describe her gait is sashay-y. It’s so dramatic it makes me start to laugh. We’ve known each other for more than two years, and I never would have predicted this playful, seductive side of her. But the sound is cut off in my throat when she puts the waters down on the end table near me and puts her hands squarely on my chest.

Anticipation comes alive beneath my skin.



Speaking through the pressurized air in my throat, I say, “What are you doing?”

“Seducing you.” She lifts one hand and draws a pinky down the side of her face, pulling away a strand of auburn hair. “Is it working?”

I’ve never had reason to check myself around her before, and the answer easily slides out of me, unfiltered: “Yes. But why?”

Another shrug. “I haven’t had sex in a while. You were doing dishes earlier.”


“It was sexy. And you stretched. I saw stomach muscles and happy trail.”

“Oh, well, of course we should end up here.”

She growls a little as she stretches to press her nose into my neck, inhaling. “I like how you smell.”

I freeze. When she says this, it feels a little like standing at the static center of a spinning room. Again: Millie. This is Millie Morris. Goofball. Colleague. Stealer of my Stanford sweatshirt. Woman who shares my exact tastes in beer. The glue of our circle of friends. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she says, and blazes heat into me with the press of her mouth over my pulse point. “It’s familiar, but I never realized until now how nice it is up close.”

While she kisses up my neck, I’m dragged back two years, when Dustin brought her along with him to meet up with the rest of us for drinks. Chris, Alex, and I thought he seemed like a cool guy; maybe he’d be another colleague we could end up hanging with. Academia is hard as hell, and it helps to have a community of people who get the schedule, understand the pressures. But within a half hour, Dustin was playing darts with some surfers, and Millie got us all drunk on car bombs and dirty jokes. From that night on, Millie seemed more ours than his. I know they ostensibly broke up because their schedules weren’t compatible, and they hit a plateau—also he was basically a dick—but I sometimes wonder how much her friendship with us contributed to the breakup.

It was a friendship that came at the perfect time. I was still reeling from Isla calling off our engagement, was still finding my friend clan at the university. Chris, Alex, Ed, and I hung out, but it was spontaneous—never something we planned or assumed. As soon as Millie joined our little gang, though, being together became the default: barbecues at Chris’s when it was nice out. Football at Millie’s on Sundays with a big TV and best furniture. Game night at Ed’s. Inside jokes and familiarity. We fell into a rhythm and built a scaffold of community. Before Millie we got together when we randomly bumped into each other; because of her we now have lunch every Monday and Wednesday, and I can’t imagine a week without it.

I fucking love all of them, but romance wasn’t even on the table. Now it’s just me and Millie here, standing so close our chests touch. I’m trying not to contemplate what the others would think right now.

When I focus again, it’s hard to think of anything; Millie has been busy. One finger is tucked into my belt loop and her lips are hovering near my chin, skirting along my jaw. It’s decision time. All I have to do is tilt my face down to her, and we’ll be kissing. I’m already getting hard, and the question whether this is a great or disastrous decision is growing cloudier.

“Are we going to do this?” This time I say it out loud. Her breath, against my mouth, is sweet with wine and the apple Jolly Rancher she swiped from Chris’s counter on our way out the door.

“I really, really want sex tonight,” she admits. “Specifically, I’d like sex with you, but if you’re weirded out by this, then it’s cool if you leave and I dive into the drawer of sin in my bedroom.”

I haven’t exactly made up my mind, but my lips pass over hers once—just to see—then again, and it’s not weird, not even a little. It’s soft and easy. My pulse taps out an impatient beat inside me. “The drawer of sin?”

“Sex toys.”

“No,” I say, kissing her again, “I translated that. I mean . . . you have an entire drawer of them?”

“It’s not a huge drawer.” Her mouth comes over mine, firmer now, and then she grins into the kiss. “But yeah. It’s full.”

Wow, her lips are unbelievable—playful, soft, immediately addicting. It takes almost no time for her to transition from Millie, my friend into Millie, sexpot, and for a tiny flicker, I desperately hope that we can transition back just as easily.

But then her hands come up under my shirt, and I hope instead that time snags on this night, so it doesn’t ever end.

Her palms are soft slides of heat, up over my stomach, to my chest. Fingernails teasing, fingertips mapping every inch of me. Her sounds vibrate against my lips, into my mouth. My shirt is up and gone. Her hands work madly at my belt, my button, my zipper, until my jeans are a puddle of black at my feet.

All the thoughts we shouldn’t have about our friends are unleashed—how she kisses, what sounds she makes, does she take charge, is she fun?—and by her grin I can tell the same thing files through her thoughts. What a relief to find all the unexpected ways we’re compatible.

I like her little gasp when she digs into my boxers and feels me. I like the sneaky smile that presses against mine. “Reid. I’m touching your dick.”

“I know.”

“I like it,” she whispers.

“Coincidence? I do, too.”

She giggles, pulling her hand out of my boxers and cupping her hands at my waist while she walks backward, leading me down the hall to her bedroom. She kisses my collarbones, my neck, my jaw.

Millie is easy to undress: just a tug of fabric up over her head, and then she’s standing there in nothing but her underwear. I’ve always semiconsciously suspected she had a great chest, but now I get to confirm with my eyes, and hands, and mouth. I’ve always appreciated that she likes to swim, that she eats pretty well—but now I get to see the definition along her arms, her stomach, the strength of her thighs. Her hair is a mess; her mouth is a little swollen from me already. I haven’t had sex in months, and I’m momentarily overwhelmed—a starving man at a buffet, unsure where to start.

“You’re overthinking something,” she says, and then moves closer, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of my boxers. “Don’t think.”

I twist a strand of her hair around my index finger. “Should we establish some ground rules?”

When Millie pulls away slightly, her eyes are dark and heavy. “If you want?”

“I just feel like we should.”

Her lips return to my neck, sucking. “Okay, one, we both come.”

I pull back and look at her. “Seriously? That needs to be said?”

A wry curve tugs at her mouth. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

“I’ve got you,” I say, kissing her smile. “But my rule is we don’t tell the guys.” Ed is so genuinely optimistic, he’d probably be happy for us even if it’s just one night of fun. But Alex is a smart-ass who would give us unending shit and Chris would be horrified.

It’s her turn to pull back in surprise. “That needs to be said?”

“I feel like they’d be jealous, I guess.”

“Of me, obviously. Clearly everyone wants to bang Reid.”

This makes me laugh. “Clearly.”

“So, you’re not telling Chris? You tell him everything.”

She’s right, but he would never be on board for this kind of impulsive decision. Chris is the most intentional, cautious person I’ve ever known. “I swear I won’t.”

Her hand slides over my stomach, and a fingertip traces the line of hair above my boxers. “Any other rules?

“I have condoms,” I say. “But they’re in my car.”

“I have some in my drawer of sin.”

I can hear the smile in her voice, but the blunt mention of something so physically related to the act makes her neck go warm under my mouth.

Her bra comes off with a little slip of my fingers, and I lose even more of my plan to savor this when I fit my hand around the warm curve of her breast. “What do you like?”

“Everything,” she says, quickly adding, “except anal.”

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