My Hairiest Adventure was a mess of ideas that never really added up to a coherent story. I did appreciate the humor in it. The band practice scenes were funny and very believable. Dr. Murkin’s name might be the dirtiest joke ever slipped into a Goosebumps book, especially given the hair-centric plot of the book. The characters were fine, there were just too many. It’s hard to articulate without going into major spoilers, but there were so many missed opportunities to tie the various elements of the plot together. A few relatively simple changes could have made a huge difference. The kids finding an expired bottle of INSTA-TAN and excitedly putting it on was an odd choice for many reasons, but it really didn’t work as a catalyst for the eventual twist. This could have been a really fun book in the vein of One Day at Horrorland, but it ended up reading like an afterthought.
Disclaimer:I own nothing. Also, I lifted the first part almost verbatim from canon.
Author’s Note: Okay, so I’ve been salty af ever since we were all denied the steamy scene in Vegas with our LIs. I decided that day that it needed to be written, and for reasons still unbeknownst to me, it’s taken more than three months to finish, even though it’s rather short. I blame anxiety, as with most things. Please understand that this story is canon-compliant - meaning, if this scene had taken place in the book, it would only be the fourth time they’d ever slept together (and that’s if you paid diamonds), and maybe two weeks or so (?) after their first time. Their world is crazy and the timeline of that book is odd, but the bottom line is that this is a relatively new relationship, and the feelings are felt accordingly.
“Before we turn in for the night…I hope tonight has been your dream bachelorette party.”
“It’s been absolutely amazing. You really outdid yourself.”
He smiles, eyes lighting up at the compliment. “I’m glad. I wanted it to be extraordinary. If there’s anything else you want to do on your special night, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
“Actually, I would like to…” She trails off, taking a long moment before finishing her sentence, “have one last fling before we’re married.”
He tries and fails to keep the surprise from his face. Just because it’s practically a Cordonian tradition to share doesn’t mean he wants to.
She swats his arm lightly as she laughs at his expression. Her fingers catch his belt loops and she pulls his hips toward hers before wrapping her arms around his waist. "I’ve been informed that it’s common in your culture, but I never wanted to be anyone’s side piece, and I certainly don’t now. Come on, Maxwell. I mean I want to have one last wild night with you before we go back home and I become your ball and chain.“
Oh. Oh. "Oh!” He lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and leans down to kiss her forehead. "Ball and chain? Never. The rest of that thought? Hell, yes. I’d take you right here, but our friends would probably object. Also security.“
She shakes her head as she laughs again. "Your room will do just fine.” Before he can respond, her lips are on his and he lets himself melt into her, but she breaks away all too soon. "I’m going to say goodnight to everyone. See you in ten,“ she calls over her shoulder with a smile as she walks toward their friends gathered at the bar, an exaggerated sway in her hips since she knows he’s watching. That gold dress was a damn good choice.
As the elevator doors close, he catches sight of his grin in one of the mirrored walls; he looks down at the marble floor instead and his smile softens as the memories of the evening wash over him. You planned one hell of a night. All worth it for one hell of a woman. The doors open with a ding and he gives his reflection double finger guns, clicking his tongue with each shot. He’s maybe still a little bit drunk.
There’s no need to turn the lights on when he walks in the room. The glare of streetlights below and the neon of Bally’s across the Strip suffuse the room with a pale peach glow. He takes off his suit jacket and dress shirt, throwing them over the back of the sofa, then heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth as he waits for her. Turning off the tap, he hears a quiet knock on the door and opens it to let her in.
The sliver of light from the hallway fades against the wall as the door closes, and he doesn’t even get a chance to click the deadbolt before her arms wrap around his waist and her lips find his. He instantly regrets brushing his teeth when her alcohol-tinged tongue meets his, but if it bothers her, she doesn’t show it. The fingers of one hand at his back dip below his waistband and he suddenly doesn’t really care about much else beyond picking up where they left off on the mini Eiffel Tower.
She breaks the kiss to lean back and look up at him with a mischievous smile. "I wanted to thank you. This was a wonderful day…and night…and early morning.”
“You’re welcome. Nothing but the best for my favorite person.” He leans in to kiss her again, but she stops him, pressing a palm to his chest.
“No. I want to thank you.” She rakes her nails lightly across his skin, a momentary distraction from the fact that the fingers of her other hand are already toying with his belt buckle. His breath hitches as she palms his growing erection, and now she lets him kiss her, working his pants and boxers down as her teeth gently graze his lower lip.
They step over his discarded clothes as she draws him toward the sofa, pushing him down to sit on the cushions in a move that’s just a touch more rough than playful. He reaches for her hips to pull her into his lap, but instead she sinks to her knees before him, the sequins of her dress rough against his inner thighs. He looks down at her with wide eyes, watching as though the world is in slow motion when she reaches for him, hand gentle but firm, and leans forward to drag her tongue slowly from base to tip before closing her lips around him.
The wedding is this weekend - because their world is upside-down and death waits in the shadows and holding on to love is the only way forward - but sometimes it feels as though they’ve barely explored the part of their relationship that turned him from friend to fiance. Each time they’ve stolen a moment together like this, he’s gladly focused on her, only finding his own pleasure after hers. This sight, this sensation, her tongue moving in ways that could make him forget his own name, is all brand-new and beyond every fantasy of her that he’s ever had. It has to be the sexiest thing he’s seen in his life.
Her grasp tightens just slightly, her thumb following her lips slowly upward with a steady pressure, as her other hand reaches lower, then lower still. Through the fog of shocked euphoria, he realizes he doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands all of a sudden, shaking fingers finally threading through her hair. She looks up at him through her eyelashes, and the moment their eyes meet, he knows he won’t last. "Lydia…Lyd…“ There’s a tinge of desperation in his voice. His grip on her hair tightens, but instead of stopping, she hollows her cheeks and takes him deeper. Holy shit. This is like a dream, but it’s not how he wants the night to end. He repeats her name once more, louder, his commanding tone surprising both of them. Her gaze finds his again and he gestures toward the bed, his voice softer now. ”Please.“
She finally releases him, the wave he was just barely holding back slowly receding with each passing second. Every nerve ending is still alight and it’s almost too much to bear as she snakes her way up his body, but her hands are soft against his chest, just above his pounding heart, and her lips are softer, catching his own as he exhales a ragged breath. "Come on,” he murmurs, as he moves to stand up.
He reaches for the back of her dress, but she turns away from him and walks toward the bed before she stops, kicking off her heels and meeting his eyes over her shoulder as she eases the zipper down. The gold fabric has barely made it to the floor before his hands are on her hips, fingers beneath the elastic of her underwear, pushing them down as he kisses the back of her neck. "We’re definitely going to revisit…that. But I just…“ He feels stupid saying it all of a sudden, glad he’s speaking into her hair instead of looking in her eyes. “I wanted to be closer to you tonight."
She turns in his arms and smiles up at him before pressing her lips to his. "It’s okay. I get it.”
Bedspread thrown to the floor, they fall into crisp linens together, a tangle of arms and legs and heat. Finally able to turn his attention to her, his hands roam the planes of her body by memory that’s a mix of imagination and just-recent reality. A vision of this moment, right here, had entered his mind unbidden a thousand times in the past year, during sleepless nights in a shared train car or the quiet stillness of Beaumont Manor, aching with the knowledge that she slept just a few doors down and would never be his.
But here she is beneath him, her skin smooth against his fingertips, looking up at him with desire-darkened eyes that also shine openly with love. How in the world is this his life, that she chose him - him - over a king? He doesn’t have time to marvel, because she pulls him closer and her lips find his again, her tongue urgent against his own. His mind reels a little when she sucks his bottom lip gently between her teeth, and he responds by sliding a hand up her side to cover her breast, his thumb against her skin hardening her nipple to a peak. Her sharp intake of breath and that little sound from the back of her throat as she exhales is immensely gratifying.
His nerves are still on high alert; the friction of the sheets and the silky skin of her thighs against his erection is torture. He reaches between them, pushing two fingers into her wetness and circling her clit with his thumb, wanting to bring her to his level so they can fall together. Her hips twitch against his hand and she gasps.
“Maxwell,” she breathes. ”Now.“
He doesn’t have to be told twice. Hovering carefully over her, he pushes inside, her walls tight and hot around him, and he has to still himself for a long moment to keep control. He sets a languid pace in a likely vain attempt at endurance, reveling in the look of pleasure clearly written across her beautiful features. He reaches a hand around her thigh and brings her knee forward; following his lead, she angles her pelvis upward so he can thrust deeper into her heat. She inhales a gasp of surprise, he exhales a groan.
Eventually, she wraps her legs around his waist, her heels a pleasant pressure on his lower back. One of her hands grips the pillow above her head, while the other is splayed across his shoulder blade, her fingertips pressing repeatedly into his skin in a rhythm to match his own. He kisses along her neck, her shoulder, the impossibly soft skin of the underside of her arm.
The hand at his back grips tighter and she arches into him, her body pressed to his, her breath a hot, panting whisper of his name, over and over as she nears release.
“Oh-” she moans, burying her head in the crook of his neck as she comes undone, the muscles in her thighs quivering even as she draws him ever closer, her legs almost painfully tight against his sides. "Oh, Max, I love you.“ The heat of her breath as she speaks blooms against his skin, warmth spiraling outward toward his fingers; it’s all he can do to keep himself propped above her. ”I love you, I love you…“
He’s heard his name cried out in pleasure before, by no voice more beautiful than Lydia’s, of course, but there are semi-distant memories of others - mostly the ridiculous pseudonym he used in his early twenties during wild nights out in the capital, but never ‘I love you’. Never. Not even from Lydia, not in this moment.
And he knows, of course he knows, but it still hits him like a crashing, drowning wave as his head drops to her shoulder, eyes scrunched tight - before her, he’d never slept with a woman who loved him. Surrounded by the feel of her, the thought pulls him straight toward the edge.
He tries to say her name, to tell her he loves her, too, so much, but all he can manage is a strangled sound from the back of his throat, so instead he presses his lips to her shoulder, meaning to be gentle, to say without words what he can’t right now. She drops her head back against the pillow with a gasp, her walls still fluttering around him, and he barely needs to move again before he’s unraveling, electricity behind his eyelids and lightning streaking brightly, quickly, through his veins. He sucks her skin hard, harder than he means to, but he can’t stop - it’s everything he can’t say because if he tries to use his voice now it will surely break.
There’s no way she’ll be able to wear that black tank top for the flight home tomorrow.
*****
He doesn’t hear her laugh, but he can feel it in the jump of her back against his chest, the little snorted exhale on his arm where her head rests.
“Am I going to do a late-night walk of shame back to my room, or can I just sleep here?” She turns to look at him over her shoulder. "For a relatively open-minded society, you sure are weird about who wakes up where and with whom.“
Now it’s his turn to laugh. "Don’t lump me into that ‘you’! I wish I could’ve woken up next to you for the past month. Hell, the past year, let’s be real.” She snuggles in closer to him and he can feel her smile against his arm. He doesn’t want to say it, but…“Bertrand will kill us, though.”
“Ugh. I hate that you’re right and that we’re talking about him while we’re naked.”
She reaches over to his phone on the nightstand, the light from the window behind him bathing her curves in a soft play of shadow and neon. He has half a mind to keep her awake until dawn anyway, but she yawns as she settles against him again and he automatically yawns, too. She finds his hand at her hip and threads her fingers through his, pulling their joined hands just beneath her chest and hugging him closer to her. "I set an alarm. How about a nice, two-hour nap?“
His eyes are already half-closed and he smiles into her hair. "Sold."
