by Brit Benson
I hear the jangle of her keys as she hangs them on the hook next to the door and then the shuffle of her feet as she kicks off her heels. I turn my back to the doorway, intentionally busying myself with the pizza, so I don’t see her enter the kitchen.
Instead, I try to imagine what she’s wearing today. A crisp, modest button down, the blue one that matches her eyes, just fitted enough to hint at the delicious curves underneath. Black dress slacks that cling to the flare of her hips, bare feet since her sexy heels have been discarded by the door.
In my mind, her hair is up in a bun, strands framing her face from where they’ve fallen loose thanks to a day of resting her cheek in her palm. Her glasses will be perched on top of her head, her eyes will be soft with fatigue from poring over files all day, and her plump lips will be pulled into that gentle side smile that does fucked-up things to my stomach.
“Kell, did you make pizza? It smells amazing.” I listen as she walks into the kitchen and drops her bag on to the counter. “When did you get here?”
“About an hour ago,” I reply, my back still to her. “Bailey wasn’t here, so I used my key.”
I slide the pizza from the oven to the stove top, put the oven mitt back in the drawer, take a deep breath, and then turn to face her. She’s leaning against the kitchen island, eyes downcast as she scrolls through her phone.
I run my gaze over her, taking inventory from toe to head. Bare feet, check. But that was an easy one since I heard her take her shoes off by the door. Black dress slacks, check. Fitted button down, check, but I lose points on this one. She’s wearing a gray shirt, and I had guessed blue. Wishful thinking.
I got the hair and glasses right, though, right down to the errant tendrils framing her face. That just leaves...
“How was your day?” I ask, willing her eyes to meet mine.
Slowly, her gaze lifts from her phone and locks on my face, and there it is.
Soft eyelids, lined with red from staring at papers all day, making her gorgeous irises shine an impossible blue. Ivy is exhausted. But even dead on her feet, she’s a fucking goddess.
“It was good,” she says on a long exhale. “A lot, but good.”
“What’s the old battleax got you doing now?”
“Kelley!” She laughs, her tired eyes lighting up in the exact way I was hoping. “Don’t talk about your mom that way. You know I adore her.”
“You adore everyone.”
“Because there are so many people worthy of my adoration.” She bats her lashes and smiles, genuinely sweet. “Speaking of adoration, what did you make for me?”
“Margherita pizza.” I watch as her eyes flash over my shoulder, studying the pizza on the stovetop with obvious hunger.
“Mmmm. Did you add Italian sausage?” She runs her tongue over her bottom lip, and my groin heats. Fuck.
“Of course.”
“Good, you know how I need my meat.” She whips her eyes back to mine and wiggles her brows playfully, wearing a smirk that could be considered flirtatious on anyone else.
“Yeah, yeah, you hussy. I get it. You’re a sausage fiend.” I wave her off, trying my best to fight a laugh and failing. I place three slices of pizza onto a plate and set it in front of her.
“Can’t help it. I’m a growing girl with an insatiable hunger,” she says as she plops down onto the barstool and lifts a slice to her mouth.
I have to force myself to turn around, double-check that the oven is off, grab two beers from the fridge, anything to keep myself from watching her eat.
If I thought for one second that making a move wouldn’t ruin our friendship, I’d do it. I’d tell her how I feel, and then I’d spend every minute afterward showing her. But I learned the hard way that anything more than friendship between Ivy and me is impossible. It’s torture, but I can’t picture my life without her, so I take what I can get and stoically bear the pain.
“So, what’s the plan?” she mumbles through a mouthful of pizza. I crack open a beer and set it in front of her, then open my own and take a long pull before answering.
“Well, we could start that new cheesy horror film that came out last week. The one set in the high school and the teenagers are played by grown fucking adults?”
“Mmm, that could work. I’m down for gore, and older actors make me feel less skeezy about drooling over the hero.”
“Ha, right. Or, we could watch Becoming, that documentary about the former First Lady.”
“Always my First Lady,” she says and lifts her beer to me.
I knock my can with hers. “I’ll cheers to that.”
“Well,” she says after taking another drink of her beer, “my brain is tired. I need something I can pay minimal attention to and possibly fall asleep in the middle of.”
“Sounds like you’ll take twenty-seven-year-old teenagers for 1,000, Alex!”
“Yes!” she exclaims around a laugh, hopping up to put her plate in the sink. “C’mon, chef. My tummy has been sufficiently filled, and Bailey is bartending, so she won’t be home until late. Let’s get to the Netflixin’ part of the evening. I know you probably have to run one hundred miles in the morning, so we don’t want to keep you up too late.”
I chuckle. “It’s actually only six miles tomorrow.”
“Ick.” She shudders and saunters into the living room, and just like I’ve been doing since we were fourteen, I follow.
When I get back to my condo later, it’s midnight.
Ivy, like usual, fell asleep before eleven, during a fucking gory ass slasher flick. I don’t know how she does it. I was crawling out of my skin, using all my energy not to shriek like a small child. If she hadn’t maneuvered her sleeping body onto my lap, I might have actually screamed.
The nights with more touching are torture. They are the best and also the worst possible thing. Tonight, when she fell asleep on my shoulder, her mango body wash engulfed me like a drug. An opium cloud of her scent. Thick and sweet and intoxicating.
When she sleepily moved so her head was in my lap, I forgot about the movie entirely. The weight of her head on my thigh and her warm breath slipping through the fabric of my thin joggers was enough to drive me crazy. By the time she rested her small hands on my leg, I was running my fingers through her silken hair and mentally reciting the Preamble to the Declaration of Independence to keep my dick in line.
I can’t get that contact out of my mind.
Even with the physical distance between us, I can still smell her shampoo, can still feel her fingers grasping onto my thigh, and I’m hard as stone. It doesn’t matter how many amendments I recall; my erection isn’t relenting.
Fuck.
It’s not the first time I’ve taken matters into my own hands with Ivy on my mind. It definitely won’t be the last.
I try not to.
I feel like such a shitty best friend when I do.
But I’m fucking weak, and she’s powerful, and I’m horny as hell. When I step into the shower and wrap my hand around my hard cock, it’s her face in my fantasies.
I squeeze, letting the hot water cascade down my body, the soap allowing my strokes to glide smoothly up and down my shaft. I rest my back on the shower wall and slide my other hand down my torso, pressing on my abs.
I try to think about someone else.
Someone her polar opposite.
Someone who doesn’t have blonde hair, blue eyes, curves for days, and the best fucking dimple in the whole damn world. Megan Fox. Ciara. Jessica Alba. Mother fucking Beyonce. After two, three strokes, a swipe of my palm over the swollen head of my dick, they all change into the one woman who owns me.
Ivy Jean Rivenbark.
Fuuuck.
In my head, I don’t touch her. I never let it go that far. If I said what I really wanted to say, or put my hands on her how I craved, I couldn’t come back from that. It would be the ultimate high. I’d never leave my fantasies.
Instead, I watch her.
I imagine her touching herself. Her delicate
fingers pinch her nipples, and she whimpers. Her breasts are full and heavy, her nipples the same soft pink as her plump smile. My mouth waters. I want my lips on them. I want to suck those nipples into my mouth and lave them with my tongue. Bite them lightly. Mark up her perfect skin with my teeth.
But I can’t.
So, I close my eyes tighter and watch as she massages and tweaks and writhes.
I squeeze my cock harder. Stroke it faster. A low groan escapes me, swallowed up by the steam.
Her small hands slide into black lace panties. She rubs her clit, swollen bottom lip between her teeth, desperate, needy blue eyes on me. I want to replace her fingers with mine, glide them through the slick folds of her pussy and press them inside. I want to feel her contract around me. I want to be the one to make her come.
Her hand moves underneath the lace of her panties. Her wrist bends slightly, fucking herself with her fingers. Her hips buck, her other hand massaging her breasts, and her eyes never leave me. I hold back from commanding her how I want, from urging her on. I clamp my mouth shut, both in reality and in my fantasy, and let her do as she pleases.
Fuck, what I wouldn’t do to taste her. To tell her all the dirty things I want to do to her. To have her hips moving like that against my face.
I flip around and brace myself on my forearm, drop my chin to my chest, and jerk my dick with her moans in my ears.
My balls tighten, my abs contract, and when I spray my release onto the shower wall, it’s Ivy’s name on my lips.
* * *
The next morning, I’m up with the sun.
So far, Sundays have been my favorite training days. The modified marathon training schedule I’ve been working through has me set so every Sunday, for the last seven weeks, has been six miles at an easy pace. Honestly, it’s been therapeutic, and when I spend my Saturday nights with Ivy, it’s necessary. I need a fucking outlet. With the right playlist, I could do this session in my sleep.
I step out of my apartment, take a deep breath in, and drop to do a few more stretches.
Six a.m. is my sweet spot. I’ve always been a morning person. I’m that crazy fucker who likes eight a.ms on my class schedule every day. Ivy likes to joke that my affinity for mornings is why I’m getting my degree in education. I’m not going to lie, that actually went into my decision but being a teacher has always been end game.
Ma and Pop would have been overjoyed if I shared their love for law, but that just isn’t for me. Ivy has the brain for that shit; I like lesson plans about dates and facts and cause and effect timelines. I like analyzing varying perspectives about the past to learn about the present, and I like knowing that I could be making a difference in the lives of my students.
Luckily for me, my parents aren’t a bunch of controlling assholes who would try to force me into taking over their company or some other antiquated bullshit. They own a general practice law firm, not some Fortune 500 real estate investment banker empire or whatever. They’re happy I found something I’m passionate about, even if that something means likely enduring piss-poor pay and governmental disrespect.
But I digress.
Finishing my quad and calf stretches, I pop in my earbuds and push play on my Sunday Marathon Playlist. Then, I slide my phone into my pocket, set the timer on my watch, and start my training session. I always do the first two blocks at a brisk walk before picking up into the guided run of the day.
Sundays—six miles at an easy pace. And I can breathe properly again.
Rounding the corner on mile five, I catch a glimpse of Jesse coming out of the student union. I don’t know what he’s doing up this early, but I can’t say I’m not glad to see him. With the exception of the “hey fucker are you alive?” text I sent him when he didn’t come home last night (to which he replied with a bunch of water and eggplant emojis), I haven’t seen or talked to his ass since Friday morning, and I’ve got questions to subtly throw his way.
“Jesse!” I call out, slowing to a walk and pushing stop on my watch timer. “Hey, man.”
“’Sup, Kell. Training morning?”
“Yep,” I reply. “Halfway through the program.” I rest my hands on the top of my head and work on steadying my breathing. I’m barely winded, but my heart rate is still elevated above resting.
“Damn. The marathon is getting close, yeah?”
“It is,” I say on an exhale. “I’ll be ready.”
“Hell yes, you will.” He nods with a grin. Jesse is a natural hype man. It’s in everything he does. He’s always the life of the party and the loudest one cheering in your corner.
“What are you doin’ up so early on a Sunday?”
“Picked up a volunteer shift at the hospital, but I wanted to turn in this paper first.” He holds up a stack of papers and nods toward the end of the quad. “This philosophy elective is kicking my ass, but it’s interesting.”
“The unexamined life is not worth living,” I say in my best scholarly voice.
“Socrates. Nice.” He chuckles. “Okay, out with it, Kelley. I know you didn’t halt your training for bullshit small talk and to quote dead philosophers.”
Busted. So much for subtlety.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, feigning innocence. “I love quoting dead philosophers.”
He shakes his head slowly, leveling me with a no-nonsense stare. “I’m not spillin’ shit until you grow a pair and ask, man.”
“Fine,” I say on a defeated sigh. “Tell me about Friday.” I look away, hoping he can’t see the apprehension on my face, but I can see him exaggeratedly roll his eyes in my peripheral.
“Same as usual. She nursed a drink, cozied up to a dudebro in a shirt two sizes too small, disappeared to the bathroom for fifteen minutes, and then left with the guy.”
I nod my head slowly.
“You gotta get over this, Kelley. It’s not gonna be you if you never shoot your shot. And for being her bestie, you’re still damn clueless when it comes to Ivy.”
“What?” I sputter. What’s that supposed to mean? “I’m just looking out for her, J. Honestly. I don’t want something happening to her.”
“She’s a grown ass woman, man, and she can handle herself. Trust me. If anyone can handle themselves, it’s Ivy.” He repeats the same thing he always does every time we have this conversation.
“I played the creep and took the picture, you’ve got her tracked on that stalker app, and I’m always there. You need to stop worrying. Maybe get out once in a while and have some fun.”
“Not my thing, J.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says around a laugh and shrugs. “Can’t fault me for trying. It would be nice to have a wing man in addition to my wing woman.”
“I don’t understand you two. Doesn’t going out every weekend get old?”
“Nope. We make a good team.” He winks like a jerk, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet while he taunts me. “She reels me in some company, I vet hers, and we both go home happy. Nothing wrong with that.” Jesse laughs at what I’m sure is a disgruntled look my face.
And on that note, I’m done.
“Alright, J. I gotta get to it,” and I head away from him without a goodbye.
“Later, Kelley,” he shouts at my back. “Come out Friday and I’ll make sure you get your dick wet!”
I toss my middle finger up over my head and round the corner with his loud laugh echoing in my ears.
Later that night, I pull up to Ivy’s apartment building in a truck I borrowed from a friend to give her the first lesson on how to drive stick. For a brief moment, my mind goes to her handling a different kind of stick—my stick—but I chase that thought away with a shake of the head.
Maybe I’ll recall it tonight when I’m alone in my room, but it’s best I don’t have hand jobs on the brain when I’m stuck in a car with Ivy. Even if her delicate fingers would probably look sexy as hell wrapped around my dick.
A few weeks ago, after watching one of the Fast and Furious m
ovies, Ivy decided that she wanted to learn how to drive manual.
When I asked her why she wanted to since her car is an automatic, she launched into this very Ivy tirade, listing all of the reasons why all women should know how to drive a manual transmission vehicle if they want to.
“But Ives, you’ve never owned a stick shift, and neither has anyone we’ve ever known—”
“Vicky Spencer’s older brother had that muscle car in high school and I’m pretty sure that was a manual,” she interrupted.
“Okay. I stand corrected.” I laughed. “But how many times did you even speak to Vicky Spencer’s brother? Hell, how many times did you even speak to Vicky Spencer?”
“That’s irrelevant. The point is that if the opportunity ever had come up with Vicky Spencer’s brother, I would have missed out. And you know how to drive a manual transmission.” She huffed, flustered and indignant and totally adorable.
Like a little pissed-off kitten.
“And anyway,” she continued, “don’t you know that manual transmission cars are easier to maintain, and they get better gas mileage—a significant two to five mpg! That can lower a vehicle’s cost by up to $1,200!—and they’re cheaper brand new?”
She had her little hands on her grippable hips, and her head was cocked to one side, her toes tapping in her Chucks. I half-expected her to hiss at me, and I was having a hard time fighting back my laughter.
“And,” she added, “manuals give the driver a better sense of control, and you know how I like control, Kelley. And even though only approximately thirteen percent of the vehicles in the U.S. are manual, that still means there is a thirteen percent chance of coming across a manual transmission vehicle in the event of an emergency or something like that.”
I raised my eyebrows at her.
“In the event of an emergency? And what kind of emergency would lead you to needing to drive a stick shift?”