Page 56 of The Party Plot

Casey pulled back, studying him, untold depths in his dark eyes. He traced his knuckles across Laurel’s cheekbone. “I am too. I just—it felt too intimate, before. Not to use one. But I guess I’m your boyfriend now, so…” he shrugged.

The bottom fell out of Laurel’s stomach, and he slammed his mouth into Casey’s, heart soaring, head in the clouds.

They fumbled their way out of the kitchen and down the hall, nearly knocking several pictures off the wall. Laurel’s hands were all over Casey, and the wordboyfriendwas pounding in his brain, and they toppled onto the bed, Casey pulling Laurel on top of him, nails digging into his ass, and then whatever was left of Laurel’s already-beleaguered brain cells evaporated, because Casey whispered in his ear, smooth as honey, “I kind of want you to do me, this time.”

“Oh, God.” Heat lanced through his groin and exploded across his face, followed quickly by self-consciousness. “Are you sure? It’s been a while.”

Casey brushed a soft kiss across his forehead. “I’m sure.” And then, more ironically, “I can’t be the one doing all the work every time. And my thighs are sore from horseback riding.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Laurel undid Casey’s belt, sliding his pants down his legs. He painted his lower belly with kisses, his hips, his thighs, and finally his hardening dick, taking him into his mouth. It was tempting to just stay there, lost in the smell of his skin and the haze of Casey’s soft sighs and the patterns his fingertips were tracing on Laurel’s scalp. But Casey had made a request, and Laurel was nothing if not obliging.

It was awkward at first, but the awkwardness soon burned off, like morning fog on a hot day, and then it was just the privilege of getting to touch him this way. Laurel’s lubricated fingers found the cleft of Casey’s ass, and Casey’s eyelids fluttered and he whispered against Laurel’s throat, words of encouragement and instruction—what had that been, again, about not wanting to do all the work? Because he certainly didn’t mind giving direction—and Laurel got lost in exploring him, in the way his breath hitched and the sheen of sweat on his brow and collarbone and the dazed look of desire in his beautiful eyes. He wasn’t sure how long it went on, just that eventually Casey cursed and put a hand on his wrist, his voice ragged as he said, “Enough. Please. I want you.”

And again, Laurel was happy to oblige, leaning down to kiss him as Casey guided his cock between his legs, and then it was just the tight, pulsing heat of him, almost too much, sending electric shocks down Laurel’s thighs and making his thoughts scatter. Casey was gazing up at him like he was a starry sky, and Laurel did his best, but every scrape of the sheets against his knees, every creak of the mattress, every time his eyes caught on Casey’s parted lips or his heaving chest or the way the planes of their bodies seemed made to fit together, sent him closer and closer to the edge, and soon he was coming, sooner than he’d like, and he reached a frantic hand between their bodies and jerked Casey off against his stomach, taking them both away together.

“Sorry,” he said, moments later, as they lay side by side, their breathing growing slow. “I wanted that to last longer.”

Casey traced a line down his thigh. “You just need more practice.”

“Oh yeah?” Laurel looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

“And someone to show you how it’s done.”

“Oh really?” A thrill traveled through him, and he rolled over so they were face-to-face, pressing a soft kiss to Casey’s lips. “Are your poor, aching little legs feeling better so soon?”

“Not yet.” Casey wrapped one of said legs around him, pulling Laurel’s hips down against his. Really, his legs were anything but little. They were long and lean and gorgeous, and Laurel felt his mouth go dry. “But they will be, in a few hours.”

19.

Halloween arrived clear and balmy and mild, which was too bad: Casey really didn’t want any trick-or-treaters coming by his apartment. He hadn’t bought any candy, and had been hoping the weather would be bad enough to discourage them. It was funny, he thought, lying on the couch, flicking through the channels. Funny to still be in Bonard on Halloween, and funny to be at home instead of rushing around town, trying to find decorations, or a seamstress to hem Denise’s dress, or a tiny bow tie for Jasper, or whatever other last-minute bullshit her new party planner was currently having to deal with. Casey guessed he must be feeling especially magnanimous, because he sent up a brief prayer for whatever poor soul it was that had taken his place.

As it was, he actually had nothing on his agenda today. Maybe a face mask and a bath. Laurel had said something about hanging out with Chip and Melody later that night, but since Melody wasn’t drinking, he doubted it would be anything wild. Probably dinner and scary movies, which sounded fine to Casey.

The clock was inching past seven and it had gotten dark out. Right now, someone was probably setting up place cards at Landry Hall, or administering last-minute adjustments to Denise’s sunflower wall. In the kitchen, they must be mixing up bowls of punch and setting pumpkin spice martinis on trays and piecing together seafood towers. He had to admit, he kind of wanted to see it, if only out of spite. He was sure his successor’s decorations wouldn’t be as good as what he’d had planned.

There was a knock on his door. Laurel had texted that he and Melody were coming over, so he hoped that it was them, and not the beginning of a deluge of trick-or-treaters. But as it turned out, it was kind of both.

“Trick or treat!” Laurel and Melody wore matching smiles, and they were elaborately, magnificently in costume, shimmering beneath Casey’s porch light. Laurel was some kind of Roman soldier, in armor and a short little kilt that did everything for his legs, and Melody couldn’t be anyone but Cleopatra, dripping in gold, all hair and cleavage and eyelashes, a snake diadem on her head and her eyes ringed in kohl and electric blue eyeshadow.

“Damn, girl,” Casey said, impressed. “Save something for the rest of us.”

“Do you like it?” Melody asked. “We’re Antony and Cleopatra. Or, I guess, Liz Taylor and Richard Burton as Antony and Cleopatra. But without the multiple marriages or sexual tension.”

“I hope it’s not too much,” Laurel added. “We commissioned Mr. Petrowski. Did you know he makes costumes, for conventions and stuff? It’s his other-other side hustle.”

“It’s not too much,” Casey said, letting his eyes travel obviously over Laurel’s chest and bare thighs. “But why get so dressed up? I thought we weren’t going out.”

Laurel and Melody exchanged a look, and Casey knew that his quiet night at home had just flown out the window.

“We weren’t going to at first,” Laurel said, putting an arm around Melody. The gold beading on her costume clinked against his chestplate. “But Melody’s got something to celebrate.”

“Howie Bonard got arrested!” she cried, pumping the air with her fist.

“Oh, shit.” Casey was surprised it had worked. He’d been planning to make an anonymous call, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. “Did they search his car?”

“What?” Laurel and Melody looked confused, which made Casey confused, in turn.

“The drugs?” he prompted. “In his car?”

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