by JC Harroway
I can barely stand, my lower limbs like rubber, even though I know he’s teasing. But he’s sown seeds of ‘if only’ in my brain, and it’s like a greenhouse in there, shoots sprouting all over the place, each possibility more graphic than the last until I’m a turned-on mess. I want to beg him—please stop for the sake of my hearing...
But he’s still talking, his sinful mouth crafting wonderful, dangerous words. ‘You should at least experience that once, so when you do date the next serious, condescending arsehole you’ll have expectations beyond discovering his career aspirations, whether he’s allergic to your cat and if he’s prepared to watch those baking shows you love.’
A gasp slips out through my slack mouth at his expression. ‘You’re actually serious?’ It’s finally computing in my head that this isn’t some elaborate, bored Oliver practical joke at my expense, although he’s not usually cruel.
I grow lightheaded with need, my imagination running at warp speed. Oliver and me. Sex. Orgasms.
‘Deadly,’ he says, no hint of amusement now. ‘Why not? Apart from today’s shocking revelation, we know everything there is to know about each other.’
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself wincing. Oh, Oliver, if only you knew how long I’ve lusted... How many fantasies, how many orgasms, you’ve already aided unbeknown...
‘I’d never hurt you,’ he continues. ‘And, as you said, I’m an expert at casual and I deliver. Blokes on dating apps lie—they’ll claim to be the best lover in the world and send you some Photoshopped picture of their enormous dick...which begs the question why they can’t find dates in the first place.’
The room starts to spin, so oxygen-deprived is my brain.
‘So how will that go?’ I lash out, because he’s made me hornier than ever before with the way he’s looking at me and with all his talk of orgasms. But I’m not a toy. He can’t take me out of the friend box, play with me and then put me back. Red rage boils behind my eyes. ‘Would I be some sort of altruistic pity-fuck?’
My question falls into the tense silence.
I’ve only seen Oliver truly angry once—with some pap who stuck a camera in my face outside a swanky restaurant he’d taken me to for my birthday a few years ago. It’s not a thing I ever wish to revisit, especially if said anger is directed my way, but there’s no escaping his furious stare and the strain radiating from his rigid body.
I hold my breath, my heart leaping through my T-shirt like that of a cartoon character.
‘Don’t.’ His single-word reprimand is little more than a throaty whisper with the effect of a blow, given the sincerity in his eyes and the harsh set of his jaw. ‘Don’t you dare demean my respect for you. You’re more precious to me than the sum of everyone else in my life.’
I shudder, confused by his words, but ready to swoon at his feet. Like this, all sexy, commanding and self-assured, he’s ten times as hot as when he’s just laughing, friend Olly.
We’re so close, I feel his heat. When my head starts to swim because I’ve forgotten to breathe, I inhale his air.
‘I want you. And I’m a selfish bastard. An orgasm for you means an orgasm for me.’ He clicks his tongue, a hint of that roguish smile of his. ‘Come on, Neve. You’re a feminist—you know the way equality works.’
He wants me the way I want him? I open my mouth to speak, to tell him to stop teasing because it’s not funny, to argue that there are willing blondes more his type out by the pool, but he silences me, a finger resting on my lips with infinitesimal pressure.
I try not to pant my excitement onto that solitary fingertip, because then he’ll know all the longing and conflict bubbling inside me.
‘If I have to watch you parade around in these sexy bikinis for the rest of the week, fighting my hard-on for you, we might as well both get our money’s worth, don’t you agree?’ He lets the last question hang for a beat or two, his mouth kicking up once more, although his eyes stay banked with heat. ‘You know how much you enjoy being frugal.’
Two compliments in a row from Oliver scrambles my disbelieving brain, especially when one of them contains the words sexy and hard-on. He thinks I’m sexy. Has a hard-on for me.
Go red bikini!
But, no, I can’t. There may as well be a neon line painted on the timber flooring between his toes and mine. Even the tip of a toe over that boundary changes everything. If only we could somehow forget that line for a while.
His finger slides down my chin and falls away. I groan in my head because his touch, flirtatious bordering on seductive, may as well have delved into my soul to massage my wildly beating heart. I want him to touch every part of me in that way until I’m so full of sensation, there’s no room for reason, doubt or fear.
And it seems I can have what I want.
‘But...’ Why am I stalling? This is what I secretly craved when I agreed to Brooke’s silly pact, back in London. That he’d suddenly wake up and notice me. Why am I not laving my tongue over his pierced nipple, over every inch of him as if he’s a giant lollipop, and then ripping off those shorts with my teeth?
‘It’s a stupid idea,’ I say, ‘because it will change things between us.’
I’m not naive. Oliver is Oliver. He’s not going to miraculously morph into boyfriend material overnight. He doesn’t do relationships, just sex-fests. We’ll sleep together, and it will be great, but then what? Will we be friends with benefits every time we’re both single and feeling horny? Will our friendship end as soon as the shagging ends, Oliver reverting back to type, growing bored and moving on? The roll of butterflies reminds me of his value in my life. And to risk it all... For sex. Probably one-sided sex, like all my other experiences. No—it’s not worth the price.
But, couldn’t I have a little taste of what I’ve always craved? Just one time?
‘It’ll only change things between us if we let it,’ he says with a shrug. ‘It’s just fucking. You’ll tell me what feels good,’ he says, his stare tracing my mouth. ‘And we’ll get you over this hurdle, no big deal.’ He’s still the voice of reason, and if I didn’t know better I’d think he’d waited all these years just for this chance. And he makes it sound so easy. So neat and compartmentalised.
‘Don’t you want to know what your body is capable of?’ His voice brims full of delicious promise. ‘I want to be the one to show you.’
At my continued hesitation he holds up his hands, palms out, and moves back a fraction. ‘I don’t want to pressure you. It’s your decision. And if I’m being inappropriate here I’ll apologise and we’ll never mention this conversation again.’
Panic flares in me. I grip his forearm, stalling. ‘Hold on a second. I’m thinking.’ Could I keep my distance emotionally and just enjoy the sex? Take the orgasm on offer, learn from the master and keep feelings and expectations out of it? Would I be any worse off? And at least I’d know one way or another if there’s truly something wrong with me. If I can’t come with Oliver, no other man stands a chance. And he’s right. I shouldn’t dive back into dating with such depressingly low expectations.
As long as he keeps his word that it won’t change our friendship, this is my best shot at a safe space of sexual exploration...
He stands stock-still, his stare glued to mine while my pulse flies.
I narrow my eyes to what he calls my ‘mum look’. ‘Let’s say for argument’s sake we’re the first couple in the history of the world to make friends with benefits work... We’d need to have a defined set of ground rules.’
His lips twitch. ‘Of course. A person with an analytical, spreadsheet-wielding mind like yours could rattle those off in seconds.’ He crosses his arms and lifts his chin, playfulness deepening the creases around his eyes. ‘Hit me with it.’
My voice is too breathy, because the longer we talk about this the hornier I grow. And the more of an actual possibility it seems, not just talk. But there’
s a riot going on inside my stomach as I ponder the practicalities, nerves beading perspiration on my top lip. Still, he’s right. Rules and numbers don’t lie.
‘You’ve already stated rule number one,’ I say. ‘That it won’t affect our friendship.’
He nods. ‘Done.’
‘Rule number two,’ I say, ignoring the way he finds this amusing, warming to my theme. ‘What happens on the island, stays on the island.’ As long as I keep the rules coming, I can delay the moment when I have to make an actual, life-changing decision. But is there really any question? Am I really going to turn him down when a part of me has never had platonic thoughts where he’s concerned?
‘Yes, of course...’ He’s growing impatient. Bored.
I roll back my shoulders. If we’re doing this, I’m putting in the safeguards. I won’t let him railroad me. ‘Rule number three—we never speak about this with each other after today. Ever.’ Perhaps that way we’ll both forget it happened and therefore protect our friendship.
He gestures a mock salute. ‘Roger that.’
‘And four—no kissing and telling.’ Heat boils up my neck at the hypocrisy of this last point, because if Oliver lays one finger on me in lust there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to keep it from Brooke and Grace. I’ll be spilling my guts in our group chat before he can say ‘take off your clothes’.
My heart thuds.
‘As if I’d do that. And I’ve already agreed that we keep it a secret. You’re repeating yourself now,’ he says with an indulgent smile. Oliver slowly reaches for the sunglasses I’d forgotten were still perched on my head, folds them and tosses them onto the chair.
Of course I’m babbling—I’m a bundle of nerves.
‘Let’s shake on it,’ he says, his deep voice more dark and dangerous than I’ve ever heard before. With eyes locked on mine, he holds out his hand palm-up. His big, sexy Oliver shaped hand is so familiar. But the gesture, us shaking on a deal to step over the friend boundary together, is so alien that the scant inches between us may as well be miles. My own arm feels leaden, hanging at my side with paralysing inertia.
My fingers twitch. Burn for his touch.
My eyes burn with longing, trapped by his vivid blue stare.
My throat burns, all the reasons and arguments and conditions dried up.
I lift my hand so it’s hovering over his.
Before I can vacillate further, Oliver closes the gap and slides his palm against mine in a strong grip. I suck in a gasp and then flush, because there’s no way he missed the sound. We’re not hand holders, Olly and I. Despite the hundreds of sexless touches that have passed between us, this touch is breath-stealing, scorching.
But, if I’m gasping at hand-to-hand contact, what happens when there’s some breast action going on? I’ll probably self-combust.
My thighs quiver at the very idea.
This is the longest handshake in history. I try to pull my hand free, but Oliver holds firm, using the momentum of my recoil to propel me closer, my breasts now only millimetres from his hard chest. I look up from his mouth, the breath panting from my lungs.
‘Olly,’ I plead, my body almost touching his in all the places that matter.
‘Rule number five...’ he says, his stare blatantly tracing my parted lips with the hunger I’ve longed to see a million times—the bedroom eyes.
‘No more Olly.’ His deep voice is full of unfamiliar command. ‘Only Oliver.’
I nod my agreement, my knees too weak to keep the tremble from my legs.
Olly is my friend. Oliver will be my lover.
Temporarily.
‘Say yes,’ he says, tempting me.
I feel my pulse to the tips of my toes.
‘Yes,’ I say, on a heavenly wave of surrender.
CHAPTER FOUR
Neve
HIS NOSTRILS FLARE, as if he’s sucking in a silent gasp, but he’s outwardly calm and so controlled. My friend has a sexy alpha side... My entire body feels stiff enough to snap. Not that I want to escape but, now this moment is here, the actual realisation of all my hopes and dreams, I’m a physical and mental wreck. So high on longing and the thick thud of desire, I can almost imagine the orgasm he claims to be able to deliver.
‘Fact one about orgasms,’ Oliver says huskily, his full, sensual lips only inches from mine. ‘They start in your mind.’
I look up from his mouth and the expectation of his kiss, my stare clinging to his for fear I’ll pass out before we even get to the good stuff. Because bedroom Oliver is even more confident than when he’s running his multi-billion-pound company. I went to a tech conference with him once in Silicon Valley, where he’d been invited as a speaker. His intelligence and authority was so hot, I’d had to leave before the end of his talk to rub one out on the bathroom.
‘Close your eyes,’ he says, voice low and seductive as he woos my body to his will. ‘Let me paint you a picture.’
I obey his hypnotic words, although I don’t want to miss one second of the look of lust on his face. I’d walk over hot coals for him on any given day, so on this day, where I’m so close to the fulfilment of my deepest fantasy, I’m his to command. One hundred per cent.
When he speaks again, I’m so attuned to every nuance of his voice—as if I’m hearing it for the first time, so heightened are my senses—that every word is audible over the sound of my own ragged breathing.
‘It’s hell watching you walk around in these sexy bikinis,’ he says, his breath warm on my cheek. ‘I don’t know what’s happened, because I’ve seen you in a bikini too many times to count, but I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you, off your gorgeous body, since we arrived.’
My neck collapses, my head falling back, a gasp of ecstasy floating past my parted lips at his arousing confession. I’m petite, curvaceous. Why have I never known that he thinks my body is gorgeous? His poker face must be a good as mine.
He lifts my glasses from my face and I fight the urge to open my eyes. ‘I want to see what’s underneath these tiny triangles,’ he says, his dark voice vibrating the air between us.
Moisture gushes between my legs. I want to show him. How can he do this to me with his voice alone? With his ordinary words? But to me, they’re not ordinary.
‘I want to taste the sweet little nipples I see poking through the fabric,’ he says, his warm breath now feathering over my neck, my collarbone, as if he’s about to take off my T-shirt and bikini top to do exactly that.
‘I want to know if you’re wet while I stand here speaking my dirty thoughts aloud.’
I am, oh God, I really am.
I grip his fingers more tightly because I feel faint with desire.
He hums a sexy noise in his throat. ‘I want to drop to my knees right now and suck on all that heat and sweetness. And I will. Soon.’
My pants grow frantic, as if I’m a vixen in heat. I want to open my eyes, to see the lust I hear in his smoky voice. I’ve never been this turned on before, and he hasn’t really touched me yet, but I don’t want to break the spell. I’m high on the promise in his voice, which I’ve waited so long to hear.
Wave after wave of delicious spasms clutch at my core muscles. I might actually come standing here. With him touching nothing more than my hand and my mind with his aphrodisiac words. How can he do this to me? And why did I wait all these years to be this brave?
‘But more than any of that,’ he whispers, worming his way deeper into my mind, ‘I want this.’ The heat of his breath registers on my lips a split second before his firm kiss lands, and I go into meltdown. With an impatient grunt, he drops my hand to grip both sides of my face and holds me still, captive, enraptured, while his firm, thrilling kiss directs my pliant lips apart. His tongue delves inside my mouth at the same time his leg slides between my legs, my sarong parting so the only thing between my very wet crotch and fizzing clit and his
muscular thigh is two thin layers of fabric.
My pulse whooshes in my head; I’m kissing Oliver.
As if my brain is jolted with electricity, I snap out of the seductive trance he put me in the minute he touched my hand. My eyes snap open to see his swimming before me, out of focus but bold with triumph and challenge. I could die happy right now, because I’ve taken that giant leap, I’ve made something happen.
His strong arm scoops around my waist, hauling my body up and mashing my tingling breasts to his hard chest, so I feel the bar through his nipple. I’m desperate to discover if it’s sensitive for him. My tongue pushes against his, a mewl forcing its way from the back of my throat as I claim the kiss I’ve only dreamed of for nine years. It’s everything I imagined and more. A first, but somehow familiar, because he’s no stranger. I know him inside out. And I want him with terrifying ferocity.
My hands tangle in his hair, fighting to bring me closer to the source of such wrecking pleasure as Oliver Coterill’s kiss.
I want it never to end. I want to rush it along. I want so many things, I’m practically levitating, only the tips of my toes grounding me to the timber floor.
Then my analytical mind starts a placard-waving demonstration. I scrunch my eyes closed in the hope of silencing the protests. I don’t want to see sense. I don’t want to think of all the reasons that this shagging my best friend dooms me to a lifetime of heartache. I just want him. Just one time before I abandon my futile crush for good and give up my fantasy.
Because there’s been a secret, shameful part of me convinced I’ve held something back from past boyfriends, as if waiting for this moment. For my shot with Oliver. Perhaps I even sabotaged my own past relationships, holding out for this long-coveted eventuality. Perhaps that’s the reason my exes were jealous of our friendship; they saw what I tried to conceal.
And Oliver’s right. I want to experience the amazing sex everyone talks about. That it might be with him, is too perfect to contemplate.