by Karina Halle
I swallow and gaze out the window, wishing I made coffee to go. The coffee at the ferry terminal is heinous and I’m going to need some sort of stimulant to handle all of this. “I can’t help it if I take it seriously,” I say quietly. “If it’s going to be my career, I have to take it seriously. Stephen King said that writing isn’t something to be approached lightly.”
“Stephen King is also a liar.” I frown at him. He goes on. “He’s a liar for a living, all authors are. So are we.”
Except we’re acting out our written fantasies, I can’t help but think.
“Look,” he goes on, his tone softening. “I’m not saying we can’t take this seriously. I think we already are. We’re going about it the right way. But at the same time, we’re writing about billionaires and strippers. Respect for the written word and all that, but you have to have fun too, find the joy, and most of all, forget about everything else. Forget about the other book. Forget about the future. Writing is about the now, is it not? It’s about putting down words and creating worlds and really, that’s it. Worrying about how the book will do, how it will be received, about if it will all be worth it is just a waste of time and it takes away from the creation of it all.”
He pauses and I can feel his eyes studying me underneath this glasses. My own face reflected in them looks tired and pained. “I agreed to this trip because I think it’s a great chance for you to let go. Just forget the whole world exists. Let’s not use our phones. No internet. We won’t talk about the future or the past. It will just be about you and me and the book and that’s fucking all.”
Wow. I know he was just telling me not to take things so seriously but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so serious. I wish there wasn’t something so incredibly attractive about this, the way he’s taking charge and acting like…an adult.
“Okay,” I say, my voice soft. I attempt to smile and lighten the mood. “I thought maybe you agreed to this weekend because of sex.”
“There are more things to life than sex,” he says. “I think writing might be one of them.”
I try not to look too shocked that he actually just said that. I hate to admit it but this man is doing a pretty good job of keeping me on my toes.
Thirty minutes later we end up at the ferry terminal in Swartz Bay, barely squeezing on the ferry with our heinous BC Ferries coffees in hand, one step up from gas-station garbage. There are some giant cruise-ship sized ferries that head to Vancouver and the mainland but the one that goes to the island is like an open barge. There are some small indoor lounges at the side where walk-on passengers can sit, protected from the elements, and there are some seats above that on the upper deck but for the most part the ferry is a raft topped with parked cars.
AKA there is no privacy.
AKA anyone can walk past your car at any given time and look inside. Or just be parked beside you and look inside.
AKA it’s extremely inappropriate that Blake’s hand is currently reaching over and sliding over to my denim shorts, slipping between my legs.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, looking around us to see who could be watching. The ferry is on the move and the people in the truck next to us have left to go sit on the deck, out of sight. The rest of the cars around us also seem empty, except the sedan on Blake’s side. There’s an old couple in that one, the woman reading the newspaper, and if they were to even look in this direction they would clearly see what he’s doing.
Or attempting to do.
“Relax,” he says. “No one is going to see.” With his hand he deftly undoes the button of my shorts and works the zipper down.
“Those seniors reading the free newspaper might see!” I tell him.
He looks over his shoulder and grins back at me, those bloody dimples. He really does wield them like a weapon. “I really doubt it.”
He leans over a fraction more and his hand slips down into my underwear, down into my cleft. Surprise, surprise, I’m wet as hell already.
“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs, his languid eyes taking me in, watching me, as he glides over me, his fingers long, hard, slick.
Fuck.
I know I really should keep my eyes open, pretend this isn’t going on, act natural.
But I want to feel it. Every inch of it.
I close my eyes and rest my head back, melt into the seat, melt into his touch.
My body prickles with need, so aware of everything. The diesel smell of the ferry exhaust, the salt air coming in through the window, Blake’s heavy breathing, the faint, wet sound of his fingers slowly working me. It’s not long before the car smells like sex.
“You’re so gorgeous,” he tells me. “Just like this. Just taking what I’m giving you.”
His fingers continue in the lazy motion, like he’s beckoning me, but I want more, so much more. My hips start to rock into his hand, my own hands gripping the seat and armrest.
Friction. I need more friction.
For once in my life, I’m too fucking wet.
He groans, withdrawing his hand for a beat and then easing it back in. Teasing me.
I whimper, soft, eager little noises.
“Tell me,” he whispers hoarsely and even the sound of his voice is a turn-on. “Tell me what you want.”
I normally don’t tell guys what I want in bed. But I think that’s Blake’s point.
He drags his fingers down, teasing at my entrance.
“Tell me,” he repeats.
“To come,” I moan breathlessly. “More pressure, your fingers inside.”
He slides his fingers inside me and I gasp, my body clenching around him, holding on, wanting more, so much more where that came from.
“You like that?” he asks and I know he’s watching every inch of my response but I don’t care. I like it. I love it. I fucking need it.
“More,” I whisper just as he slides his fingers out and comes back in, thicker, with his thumb now rubbing my clit. All the tension inside me spreads and tightens and glows and I know I can’t hold back any longer.
I want to tell him to keep going.
But I can’t speak.
It doesn’t matter that this is happening in plain view of the people on the ferry, it doesn’t matter that I feel myself being so bare and vulnerable with Blake once again. It’s been this way from the start, from our first encounter in the library. Hell, before that. When I was writing my heart out, baring my soul for him.
None of it matters because I’m in the here and now and all I feel is a part of him inside me, feeling through me in a way no one has.
I come in an explosion, a firecracker, a bomb.
I cry out, soft at first and then louder as the waves grip me, shake me, loosen everything inside me that wants to hold on. My fingers squeeze the seat and armrest until they cramp up and my body jerks with each spasm until they slowly fade away, leaving me in a puddle of bliss.
“You came just in time,” Blake says, clearing his throat. “The ferry is docking.”
And just like that he takes his hand away and quickly zips up my shorts.
I open my eyes, trying to get my bearings, to see the couple from the truck walking toward us. I button the top of my shorts and straighten up in my seat, shifting toward Blake like I’ve been talking to him this whole trip.
He bites his lip and grins, his eyes roaming over my face. “Never done that before,” he admits.
I raise my brow, still trying to catch my breath. “I suppose I should be honored that I’m the provider of so many firsts for the famous Blake Crawford.”
He shrugs. “I’m honored you played along.”
We both stare at each other for a moment until the ferry docks with a lurch and the cars start offloading. The lane next to us goes first and just as the seniors in the sedan pull away, I swear the old lady looks right at me and winks.
Job well done.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blake
Even though I’d been living in BC for the past two years, it a
lways surprises me how little of the bloody province I’ve actually seen. I guess I can’t really be held at fault when I’ve gone home to England every summer and over Christmas but even so you’d think I would have taken advantage of some of the stunning scenery and destinations from time to time. Don’t get me wrong, I love Victoria, even if it tries too hard to be “Little Britain” at times (and nowhere near as hilarious as the TV show), the warm, Mediterranean climate makes up for it. But still, I hate feeling like there’s a whole world out there that I’m turning a blind eye to.
That’s one of the reasons I didn’t hesitate when Amanda texted me about the weekend. The chance to get away was one I wasn’t about to pass up. Plus she would be there. Plus she really does need to relax. Plus, well, I have to admit that the pressure is getting to me too.
I don’t want to tell her that though. If I acted anything less than confident, I know she’d put even more weight on her shoulders and we all know serious Amanda isn’t a lot of fun to be around. It’s one reason why I can’t help but piss her off when she gets that perma-scowl on her face. Relaxed Amanda is a fun Amanda and fun Amanda is this heady mixture of sexy and adorable, something I can’t get enough of, no matter how hard I try to rein it in.
And I have been. Even though my immediate answer was that the trip sounded great, all the warning bells were going off in the back of my head, the ones that are loud and blaring and tell me that I’m veering into unwelcome territory. It’s not new to want to keep shagging a girl—if the sex is good, how can you not? But when she’s all you think about, every moment of every day, well then buddy, you have a problem.
I’m determined not to have a problem. But after seeing her come in public, in Mr. Mean, surrounded by people and the ocean and salt-tinged air, I’m starting to think wanting Amanda might not be a bad problem to have.
Then there’s the fact that when we pull off the ferry and onto the island, Amanda directs me where to drive and her whole demeanor changes right before my eyes. She’s sitting up in the seat, leaning forward and gazing out all the windows, looking like a child on Christmas morning.
She’s beautiful, I think to myself and the thought catches me off guard. It’s not that I’ve thought of her as anything but, but for once she’s not sexy with eyes full of lust or bitch-hot, like when she’s calling me a pig (and god, do I fucking love it when she calls me a pig). She’s beautiful in this wholesome, pure, wild way, like she’s becoming the sum of all the beauty she sees.
“Wow, I remember that old church!” she cries out softly as the road winds us past a small stone Catholic church flanked by old headstones, some draped with what looks like Mardi Gras beads.
The road curves away from the waterfront and sailboats moored out in the bay and heads inland toward an impressive monolith of rock presiding over the valley. “That’s Mount Maxwell,” she points out. “We’ll have to go up there later, if Mr. Mean can handle potholes large enough to swallow him.”
“We’ll see,” I tell her, knowing full-well potholes are my nemeses. As is Benedict Cumberbatch.
“Oh and the vineyards,” she says dreamily as we coast up a hill, vineyards and olive groves flanking us on either side, cascading down the slopes of sun-bleached grass. So far this place isn’t at all what I was expecting. It looks more like Tuscany than Canada.
“We have to do wine tasting one of these days. There are three wineries, a beer brewery, a cider house, even a lavender farm,” she says, her eyes dancing as she takes it all in.
“I thought we were supposed to be writing,” I tease.
“It’s inspiring.”
“Drinking? Of course. Spoken like a true writer.”
“Well you said I needed to relax,” she says. “I say we play tourist in the afternoons, you know, as a break. Or a reward.”
If I can pull myself off of you, I think. Let’s not kid ourselves, writing and wine and sightseeing is all good, but we both know we’re spending this weekend with me deep inside of her, everywhere she’ll take me.
But none of that seems to be on her mind just now, even though my fingers still smell like her cum, something I want to keep sniffing but don’t want to seem like a total pervert, not when she’s in this rare joyous element. Talk about a mood changer.
So I keep my dodgy perversion to myself as we wind our way across the island, past bucolic farms and stately houses hidden among towering trees. I swerve around swaths of bike riders who are pedaling their hearts out on the narrow road, something that looks like total hell, until we finally turn off the main road and head down toward the water.
“Can you imagine living there?” she says, sighing as we go past waterfront houses, their backyards a beach.
“I think you easily could,” I point out as we come to the end of the road and head down a bumpy gravel driveway until we stop at what can only be her family cottage. “I mean, this is your family’s. Right? You’d live here during the summer, be in the city in the winter.” I pause. “Naturally I’d have to live here too. Is there an outhouse I could reside in?”
She manages to tear her eyes away from the scenery and looks at me curiously, her lips curved unsurely.
“What?” I go on. “You would go crazy here without me.”
Maybe that seems too forward but I don’t care. I park the car at the end of the driveway and she opens the door and steps out, her body drawn toward the cottage like a tractor beam.
The cottage is not at all what I was expecting. Given Amanda’s family and their wealth, I was expecting something grand and obnoxious, even though she had told me numerous times it was small and modest. Well, she was definitely right. It is small, can’t be more than two rooms, and it’s a step beyond modest. The first word that comes to mind is quaint. Which is one step above “rustic” and “dilapidated.”
It’s pretty awesome.
“Wow,” I say, stepping out of Mr. Mean.
She pauses on the stone path, the squares cracked and worn, with periwinkle and grass running between them, and looks back at me, her brow raised saucily. “Is that ever-present sarcasm I detect? Have I let you down?”
I close the car door and stride over to her, shaking my head. “Not at all. Honestly, the fact that this is your beloved cottage makes me like you just a little bit more.”
“A little bit more? That means you must like me somewhat.”
“You know I like a lot of things about you,” I tell her, running my fingers under my nose and grinning at her. “Why don’t we step inside and I’ll show you more thoroughly this time.”
She rolls her eyes, even though there’s a hint of a teasing smile on her hot pink lips. I’m suddenly hit with a strange, almost guilty realization that I hadn’t kissed her today. I should have her magenta lipstick all over my face, my neck, but instead I got her off on the ferry without touching anything more than her pussy. There’s something crude about that and though that’s a feeling I never shy away from, it just doesn’t seem right anymore.
“Okay, so maybe the cabin is nothing special,” she says as she continues down the path and stops in front of the cabin’s wide covered back porch along a high bank of grass overlooking the harbor. She spreads her arms out proudly and throws her head back. “But how can you not be impressed by this view.”
I am impressed. I briefly take in the family of quail running from the low hedges and toward steps that must lead down to the beach, the wooden stairway flanked by tall cedars. I notice the wide covered deck with the Adirondack chairs and woven blankets, perfectly set up for the sunrise or star gazing, the stack of firewood in the corner.
I also take in her arse, perky and toned from her crazy (yet well-appreciated) addiction to running, her legs, her back, that gorgeous red hair of hers, forever bound in that ponytail, and finally, when she turns around to look at me because I’ve remained suspiciously silent, those lips again.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m moving down the path like a ghost and grabbing her face between my hands. Her eyes are wid
e and wild beneath her glasses, her mouth drops open, so sticky sweet and I press my lips against hers, inhaling her taste, her scent, the lush softness of her mouth.
For a long, agonizing second she stiffens, unsure of what to do next. I know I’ve caught her off-guard with this kiss—it’s caught me off-guard too. But before I can regret it, second guess it, step away, she’s melting against me, her hands wrapping around my waist while mine drift from her face to her hair, to the back of her neck, holding her their while our tongues dance languidly against each other.
I press myself against her, my cock hard as concrete and straining against my jeans, ready for release. She gives a soft gasp as I dig into her hip, a throaty sound that only makes me thicker. Getting her off on the ferry was one of the hottest things I’ve ever done and I’m surprised my dick has survived that case of blue balls.
But it won’t last much longer.
“Let’s go inside,” I whisper to her, taking her hand and leading her to the front door.
She fishes a key out from under the mat.
“Really?” I ask.
She waves the key at me and puts it in the lock, opening the door. “Anyone who wants to break in has to hitchhike out here. Believe me, all the riff raff is in town and they’re harmless for the most part.”
We step inside. The cabin smells like old cedar and memories and from the look on Amanda’s face, they’re all hitting her at once.
She walks to the middle of the small room, by the wood stove and sits down on the couch, staring at the board games that are at least as old as she is.
Aside from a small dining table, two couches facing a coffee table, the wood stove, the kitchen, the bathroom and the bedroom there isn’t much to it. It’s just enough for one or two people. But I can tell it’s more than enough to Amanda.
I sit down on the couch next to her and let her take it in.
After a while I brush the hair back from her face and ask, “What do you want to do?”
At first I’m not sure if she’s heard me, she has such a faraway look in her eyes, lost in a memory somewhere. Then she looks at me, blinking back to reality. She takes me by the hand and leads me to the bedroom. “I want your cock inside me. Everywhere.”