by JC Harroway
Of course my accountant friend would balk at the cost of her sex-toy addiction. She has a spreadsheet for every occasion, including her grocery list. ‘Wait, are you saying Limp Liam...?’
‘Don’t call him that.’ Her eyes flash with censure.
I ignore her outrage. ‘Are you saying he was lacking in the bedroom?’ I bite down on my glee that the patronising, toffee-nosed Liam with his old Etonian judge father was somehow flawed, even while my chest clenches with sympathy for my wonderful Neve, who deserves all the good things, including well-hung, attentive boyfriends with extreme stamina.
I think I’m going to puke.
She shrugs. ‘Not so much lacking... I guess it was largely down to me. Why are we talking about this? Let’s go snorkelling.’ Neve develops a sudden fascination with her outfit: a shift of a bikini strap here and retightening of her sarong knot there.
What the hell...?
‘Nuh-uh, no way.’ I shake my head and lean back on my hands to show her I mean business. At least these latest revelations—that she’s joined a dating app and that her relationship with Limp Liam wasn’t all roses and screaming orgasms—douses the heat in my shorts, shrinking my hard-on quicker than a cattle prod to the arse.
‘What was down to you?’ I can’t let this go, torn between arousal and jealousy of the exes who saw a side of her I can only dream of.
She looks down, thinks better of it and slams her eyes back to mine. She’s ballsy and brave even if we’ve never skated this close to deeply personal—read sexual—details before. At least, not her sexual details. Mine tend to make it into the celebrity gossip headlines thanks to my reckless teens and the example set by my ageing-rocker father. Stories which feature me apparently out-debauching him with beautiful women seem to sell twice as many newspapers and magazines.
‘I’m saying that amazing sex, mutual, perfectly timed orgasms—angels singing, stars bursting and unicorns prancing—don’t happen for everyone.’ She sighs. ‘Not that you’d know anything about that with the amount of practice you’ve had.’ Her eyes roll with derision.
My shoulders hunch with tension. I knew it. Those are the sex toys she used with Limp Liam... I’m going to have to bleach my brain once this conversation ends.
‘Hey,’ I say, holding up my hands in supplication. ‘I have no beef with however your ex got the job done.’ I just don’t want those images in my head. Images of Neve pleasuring herself, on the other hand, I can surely keep for later personal use.
‘In fact,’ I add, ‘I’m quite impressed he was man enough to buy you sex toys.’ I nod in the direction of the bag, which might as well be filled with snakes. Green snakes. Their venom fuelling my envy. ‘He didn’t seem the type.’
Neve huffs. Collapses into a chair and narrows her eyes behind her glasses. ‘I bought them myself. And I didn’t use them with him.’ She nibbles her lip and examines a fingernail. ‘He was a bit insecure in that department, to be honest.’ She flushes, as if she can’t quite believe she’s telling me all of this.
I’m a little gobsmacked myself, truth be told, my body veering wildly between excitement and sick, twisted fascination.
‘So what do you mean it was down to you?’ Creepy-crawly legs skitter up my spine. Part of me dreads her answer in case it fundamentally changes something between us, although haven’t things already changed? Like me allowing myself to look at her in a way I’ve spent years shying away from? My inexplicable jealousy over the dating app? The idea that she might have been short-changed by the men in her past...?
‘Well...you know. I...’ She covers her mouth with her hand, as if holding in some terrible secret, and then blurts it out. ‘I never had an orgasm with him.’
‘What the hell?’ I clench my jaw when I realise I’ve actually said this aloud. But I’m livid enough to crack my own teeth. I hold up my hand. ‘I’m not judging you. It’s his fault, not yours. If he didn’t know his way around a woman’s body, and he was insecure about using toys, that’s on him.’
I fume inside; I knew he was a dick-wad.
Instead of nodding in agreement or telling me to shut up, like she usually would, she turns pale, her vulnerable stare cutting me to ribbons. ‘Thanks for being so loyal, but it can’t be him, because it’s happened before.’
I curl my fingers into fists to stop myself pulling her into a hug and holding her until that look fades from her eyes. We’ve hugged a thousand times—brief, platonic hugs, preferably where her breasts don’t come into contact with my chest and my boner doesn’t show—but this time I wouldn’t stop. I’d kiss her. Taste those soft lips she habitually nibbles when she’s pretending she’s not upset. Kiss that ticklish spot on her neck. Stare into her mismatched eyes until we both feel better.
‘So you’ve had a couple of dud boyfriends.’ I shrug, torn between utter horror for my friend and a gleeful delight that the intimidating, serious number-nerd arseholes she’s dated in the past were lacking in the most crucial department. The urge to kiss her builds, a furnace in my chest. There’s no way I’m introducing her to any of my single friends now.
She’s special. She needs a special guy, one who’ll worship her the way she deserves, treat her right and rock her world.
No. Don’t think about your friend orgasming. That’s shit you’ll never erase from your brain...
Then again, none of those exes of Neve’s dragged her into the gutter by splashing her picture all over the tabloids in some salacious story like Latest Squeeze of Layabout Son of Rock Royalty! or On Again, Off Again Girlfriend of Serial Philanderer Oliver Coterill! The consequence of our friendship.
Guilt makes my skin crawl.
‘It happened with all of them, Oliver. All.’ She stares, her green eyes huge and mesmerising. ‘I’ve never once had an orgasm with another person.’ She stands now, as if she can’t contain the tension her confession has produced and needs to move. I, on the other hand, am shocked to stillness, gaping like a stunned mullet.
She pulls on a T-shirt as if she wants to hide. My horny and flabbergasted brain recalls how we’re supposed to be going snorkelling. She’s supposed to be taking clothes off, not putting them on.
My entire body is aflame now, my eager dick twitching in my shorts. Neurones fire. One single coherent thought emerges: I could give her what others failed to do, now I’m a man. I’m not a teenager with no control over his poor decisions or his dick, like I was the day we met.
What the hell? No, no, no, no...
‘So it must be me,’ she says with a sad little laugh. ‘Perhaps there’s something wrong with me...’ She looks away, her lip taking a thrashing from her teeth as she fiddles self-consciously with the hem of the T-shirt.
‘There’s nothing fucking wrong with you—I can assure you.’ Her back is to me so I indulge in a quick perv of her arse, a cute heart-shape that does things to my pulse. Even though it’s covered by a sarong, I can picture the way the bikini bottoms disappear between her cheeks, exposing her glorious globes in an adorable, lopsided way. I want to lick and suck...
‘How do you know?’ she hurls over her shoulder.
My ire rises, drowning out testosterone and propelling me from my slouch on the bed so we’re standing face to face. ‘Tell me, do they work?’ I point at the open suitcase and the bag of toys, praying my hands aren’t shaking with the adrenaline pouring through my blood. I want to touch her so bad. Just once.
She splutters, her mouth opening and closing, making me notice her perfect little kissable Cupid’s bow. ‘What?’
‘Do they work? Can you make yourself come with your bag of tricks?’
Stop talking. Walk away.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Well, then,’ I say, my hands on my hips. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you.’ My fists clench, my heart jackhammers in my throat and lust boils in my belly at the very idea of Neve making herself come with a dildo.
<
br /> For the first time in the nine years I’ve known her, I free myself to look at her the way I want, my stare travelling her body.
From her green eyes, gawping at me as if I’ve lost the plot, to her lush lips, parted so her breath can gust in outrage. Down the slope of her neck to her freckled shoulder, which has escaped from the wide opening of her T-shirt. The swell of her generous breasts straining against the fabric, with her laboured breathing and curvaceous hips screaming ‘woman’, right down to her pretty toes painted with purple nail polish.
The release, the euphoria, the freedom fills me in a rush so deep-seated I want to groan aloud and fall to my knees.
I feel the vacuum created by her indrawn breath.
Force myself to look up.
Our eyes meet.
This is hallowed ground. Forbidden territory. A no-going-back moment. I watch her lips, which seem to tremble, waiting to hear her thoughts.
But now I know her secret, know the rough deal she’s had with the SBF Club, there’s no way I’m allowing her to meet some jerk from some app who wants nothing more than to get his rocks off.
I stare at her lips. If she asked me to kiss her now, I would.
But, oh, the price of that kiss. Just one foot over that line could ruin everything...
But didn’t I already ruin her long ago—her reputation, at least—by simple association? Hasn’t she already paid the price for being my friend? Not that she ever complains, so steadfast is her loyalty—which I don’t deserve.
‘This conversation is getting weird,’ she says in a breathy voice, ignoring the fact I’ve just ogled her, with lust, from head to toe. Her gaze flicks to the door, to escape, but it’s back before I can draw breath.
‘I think we bypassed weird a long time ago,’ I manage to say past my constricted throat. ‘I’d say we’re well and truly in outlandish territory. I’m not happy, Neve.’
Her eyes widen, her plump lips pressed together in a line. ‘Why not? It’s my situation. I don’t see how it’s your problem.’
Her point is valid on every level except for one rather crucial and burning logic.
I take a calming breath, fully decided on my course of action. Exhale. Stare deep into that unique pupil so she senses the import of this moment.
‘What if I want it to be my problem?’ I say.
CHAPTER THREE
Neve
COULD HE MEAN what my addled brain thinks he means?
As far as my libido is concerned, there’s only one interpretation...
But no... Of course not. The excited fluttering in my belly peters out. I’m nothing like his usual women—glamorous, immaculate, sexual beings only looking for a brief, casual fling. There’s no way I want to become one of those temporary women. Never once in all these years I’ve known him has he had a relationship that lasts longer than a week. Emboldened by alcohol after a few too many drinks, I once asked him about his relationship avoidance, and he said that he only had to look at his father—who’s been married six times—to know that he hadn’t inherited the commitment gene.
‘What? Do you want to have a crack at it?’ I snort, trying to make light of a situation that makes me feel like I’ve waded into the sea up to my neck.
‘I could. Why not?’ he says, regarding me intently, as if with new-found fascination, until I burn with exquisite temptation.
I finally look away from his handsome, deadly serious face. ‘Very funny, Olly.’ Oh...yes, please. ‘No, thanks—I’ll stick to the dating app.’
He rolls his shoulders back, a move that pushes his buff chest closer to my peaked nipples. ‘Why? So you can have a string of depressing dates with a string of selfish guys who can’t keep a girlfriend—because otherwise they wouldn’t be on the dating app in the first place? No way am I watching you put yourself through that, not after what you’ve just told me.’
‘Then close your eyes,’ I snap. He’s crossing the line here, and part of me is enthralled and part of me equally appalled.
He carries on as if I didn’t speak. ‘You deserve so much better than that after your experiences with your exes, who I assumed were at least satisfying your needs, despite acting like superior wankers towards me. All of your needs.’
My eyes burn with incredulity just looking at him; he’s seriously not joking...
‘Most men our age use dating apps for hook-ups,’ he ploughs on. ‘Do you think those types are going to be any more attentive to your needs than Limp Liam or Tris Tosser?’
I fist my hands on my hips, ignoring his nicknames for guys who’d disliked him in return, their animosity a source of many an argument during our respective relationships.
‘You’ve had your fair share of hook-ups,’ I say, ‘So I bow to your superior knowledge. But it’s not your place to determine what I deserve.’ I aim my index finger at the centre of his sternum. ‘And don’t you dare feel sorry for me.’ If I’d wanted to feel second rate again, I’d simply have watched him crack on with the blondes outside. There’s always a queue for Oliver’s attention.
He leans closer, eyes sparking with gravity, until my finger brushes his chest. He tenses his pectoral muscles, the tip of my finger almost swallowed in the deep valley formed.
I drop my hand, retreating from the physical stand-off.
‘You’re my best friend,’ he says, his seductive voice almost unrecognisably un-friend-like. ‘I care about you being hurt or disappointed again.’
His words wash over me, wonderful and irritating at the same time. Because I want to be more than his friend. A part of me always has. ‘You’re hardly qualified to speak about relationships—you’ve never had one in your life.’ Something that, for me, helped maintain the boundaries of our friendship. I might not have been the chosen one in his bed, but for sheer staying power in his life I had all those other women beat.
He grits his teeth. ‘I may not want a relationship, but I’m damned well good at fucking, which is all that’s on offer here. I could make you come until you screamed your throat raw. I promise you that.’ He steps closer, so close his tall frame and broad chest eclipse my vision, so he’s all I see.
I sway on my feet, weak with lust just from the ecstasy of his words. But I’m used to ignoring my libido where Oliver is concerned. Used to lecturing myself on protecting a good thing—our friendship—from something as underwhelming as sex, which has been my experience.
Although, I know with him it would be far from underwhelming. In fact the English dictionary boffins would need to come up with a new adjective—perhaps ultra-whelming. Still, can’t tell that to Mr Cocky.
‘Oh, I believe you.’ I say. ‘I’ve seen and heard enough of your conquests over the years to know that’s no idle threat.’ I close my eyes and drop my head back in mock ecstasy. ‘Fuck me harder, Olly. OMG, Olly. Olly, I’m coming!’ I mimic the sex cries of Oliver’s past lovers, who hadn’t been able to contain their delight during that brief and hellish-for-me month when he’d lived with me in our early twenties.
When I open my eyes there’s amusement in his intense stare, his lips twitching with barely concealed mirth. I want to kiss the smirk right off the self-satisfied prick’s face.
He leans in, his manly scent washing over me until I’m weak from the head rush.
‘Jealous...?’ he says, his voice low and enticing enough to vibrate the air around my nipples through two layers of clothing. But no amount of armour can protect me from the effect he has on my needy body. Because I’ve always been jealous, part of me desperate to be on the receiving end of some Oliver loving just one time...
And isn’t this that chance? A once-in-a-lifetime offer?
I huff, brace my hands on my hips and stick out my chest. ‘I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, as you can see.’ I wave my hand towards my bag of delights. ‘I don’t need you or anyone else.’
But how would
it feel to cast off the exhausting battle of denial just for a few minutes? To throw myself into his bulging arms and say, Yes, I am jealous, show me what I’ve been missing! To surrender to every desire I’ve kept at bay all these years and allow my rampant libido loose on Oliver Coterill?
Would I survive? Would he?
The day I met him in a student pub, he was so charming, but with a sadness in his eyes that seemed to fuel his behaviour and a cynicism too profound for someone of our age. We’d clicked immediately. My attraction was instant, and for a few heady hours—laughing over stupid jokes and being competitive over game after game of pool—the insecure younger woman I was back then had hoped that maybe, just once, I might score the sexy, funny, charming and best-looking guy in the bar.
Then, green with longing and furious with myself for daring to dream I’d be his type, I watched him slope off with my room-mate of the time. Back in our tiny student flat with paper-thin walls, the sounds of Oliver’s sexual prowess kept me awake most of the night. Fortunately for my ears and my sanity, their relationship ended after a couple of days—she didn’t get his dry sense of humour and she hated pool. When he spent more time talking to me than he did fucking her, she turned on both of us. I tried not to take sides, but as soon as she realised that nothing would put her back in Oliver’s bed she called me his pathetic puppy dog and moved out, leaving us to our budding friendship and me to cover all of the rent.
‘I know you don’t need me, or anyone else,’ he says, his beautiful eyes temptation enough. ‘But I’m not talking about disappointing dates or relationships or second-rate, battery-operated orgasms.’
Simply hearing him say the word ‘orgasms’ aloud in his sexy baritone sends shockwaves of delirium down my thighs, almost triggering a mini-climax.
‘I’m talking about sex,’ he says. ‘Full-blown multiple orgasms that will make your extensive, and I might add impressive, toy collection redundant.’