by Kim Bailey
“This is where you get a choice. No judgments are being made, no rules or boundaries are being set. You’re free to decide. You can have whatever you want and there won’t be any repercussions. I mean that. You can’t make a wrong choice here. No matter what you pick, it won’t change my opinion of you. Okay?”
Her head nods fervently, a mumbled “Okay” leaving her parted lips.
“You can either tell me to fuck off and leave you to help yourself, or you can let me touch you—let me help you feel good.”
“God,” she moans. “This... I don’t know about this.”
“No problem,” I tell her, kissing her cheek and moving back slightly, catching her eye.
“Wait!”
My smile grows wide, like a wolf hungrily eying his prey. I want to devour her. I want to possess her. It’s the most out of control I’ve ever felt. It’s a strange, new, unyielding feeling.
And I love it.
I’m at the brink of no fucking return.
“You want to change your mind?” I ask.
“I didn’t make a decision. I can’t make that kind of decision. I suck so badly at choosing.” Her fears are honest and stark.
“Then I’ll choose for you.” I know what she wants. She knows what she wants. She’s just too afraid to say it.
My hand eases up off the bottom of the tub, leaning even further into her. I hold her stare and share her heavy breath as I cautiously stroke up her hip. Down the outside of her thigh. And back up over her other leg.
Her eyes bounce back and forth between my own, the pinch between her brow sharpening. Uneasy excitement sweeps over her features. I bite my lip and move my hand between her legs, cupping her gently.
She sighs, closing her eyes and tipping her head back. Moving back to her ear, I whisper hotly, “Did I make the right choice?”
“Yes,” she softly moans.
That’s all it takes. I want to go slow. Want to treat her like the delicate flower I know she is. But I can’t. I’m not sure how to hold back when my adrenaline’s pumping, and my mind is filled with greed and need and fucking sex.
I think I may want this as badly as she does. And the way she’s breathing. The way her hips move in small thrusts, pushing herself into my hand. I think she needs it just as badly as I do too.
“Open up.” I encourage her to move her legs aside as my mouth moves under her jaw, licking, kissing and sucking.
She does exactly as I ask, and I waste no time. My hand does what the rest of my body craves—touches her. It’s an exploration into unknown territory. A discovery of miracles. A challenge of the highest order.
A challenge I’m determined to win.
Her hips buck as I explore her flesh, my fingers running circles over and around her sensitive bud. She groans loudly, and like her laugh, it’s music to my fucking ears. I follow her lead, dipping first one, and then two fingers into her heat.
With my fingers moving rhythmically inside of her and my thumb dancing over top, I let her reactions guide me. I give her what she wants.
The bath turns to a pool of small waves as we pick up the tempo. The water sloshes up my arm and splashes against the porcelain. I relish the feeling of her hips, gyrating against me. With her pleasure, literally in the palm of my hand, and her voice—those sweet sounding, ecstatic little moans—I’m close to coming in my goddamn pants.
She suddenly grabs hold of me, squeezing her hand around my forearm. “Cal,” she pleads. “Please, I’m so close.”
“Tell me what you need, Zadie.”
Shaking her head from side to side, she cries, “Just don’t stop.”
I don’t stop. I give her more.
Murmuring into her ear, I tell her how beautiful she is, how sexy she sounds, and how amazing she feels. I beg her to let go, beg her to come, as I fuck her wildly with my hand.
With an anguished sounding cry, she comes undone, and I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Her face is flush, her breathing labored. She looks so real, so unrestrained, so goddamn trusting and breakable.
She continues to pulse around my fingers. With her nails dug into my arm, and her legs tight around my hand, she begins to sob.
“Hey.” Slowly, I remove my hand from between her legs. “Shhh... It’s okay,” I tell her, kissing her cheek and stroking her thigh.
“I’m sorry,” she heaves. “I’m sorry.” And for a moment, I think she’s just overwhelmed, her grasp on my arm is still desperate and she leans into me as she cries.
“What are you talking about?” I cup her face in my palm. “You don’t need to be sorry.”
“You don’t get it, Caleb,” she cries, shaking her head out of my hold. “I can’t do this with you. I can’t. I just can’t.”
Letting go of my arm, she brings her knees up to her chest, and shutting her eyes, locks me out.
“Can you leave the room, please?” Her words punch a hole in my gut. “I need to get dressed. I need to go home.”
“Please don’t do this,” I beg. “I promise –"
Her head falls to her knees, her sobs heavy and loud. “Go!” Her demand is muffled and weak—devastating.
But it’s still clear.
I’ve ruined this. Only, I’ve no idea how.
Zadie
We need to talk. PLEASE call me.
My finger hovers over the send button. Hesitating. Hesitating.
The metal sink I’m leaning on digs uncomfortably into my back. Every time the door opens, the muffled club music filters in clearly. The pumping bass mixes with my pounding pulse.
I still don’t know if texting Sean is the best idea. I’ve talked myself in and out of contacting him at least a million times. I’ve been looking for my backbone. Trying to figure out why this is so hard. Why I literally want to vomit when I imagine what his reaction might be.
Fuck.
Quickly, I delete the text, shoving the phone in my pocket and racing to the bathroom stall, just in time. Hope of my morning sickness ending is literally flushed down the toilet, along with the remnants of my dinner and the snack I had before we ventured out for the evening.
Throwing up has become something of a hobby for me—I’ve gotten pretty good at it—too bad it’s useless and disgusting. Too bad I’ve had to do it in the public restroom at work. Although, I’m very certain I’m not the first person to puke into this bowl.
Shame creeps in as I stand over the toilet, waiting to see if I can keep the sickness at bay. Despite being a coward, part of me—the good, rational part—knows contacting Sean is the right thing. That sensible side knows I need to face him. I need to get it over with. That part of me is ready to move onto the next stage of my pregnancy grief. I’m not sure what to call it, but it’s the point where I stop avoiding reality and start dealing with shit. As harsh as she was, Chante’s right. The avoidance has done nothing but create a pile of guilt.
Although the guilt over not telling Sean is minor compared to the other regret I’m feeling.
The crushing, debilitating, life altering fucking remorse.
My conscience, or maybe it’s my hormones, will never let me look at a bathtub the same way ever again. I can’t believe what happened with Caleb, but more importantly, I can’t believe the way I treated him. The way I used him.
He told me he had cancer and I brushed it off in search of my own comfort. In search of a fucking orgasm.
Cancer.
I didn’t even ask if he’s better. Is it even possible to be better after cancer? Everything we’ve talked about—people’s pity, his impulsiveness, not wanting to miss out on life. It all makes so much sense now. I can’t imagine the level of fear he must have lived through, or the kind of strength it must take to get past that.
How the fuck is he so brilliantly optimistic all the time?
All I know is that I need to fix this. It was a mistake to let things get so out of hand. Or maybe the mistake was letting things get in hand. Whatever. That orgasm was... whoa. I’ve never ex
perienced anything quite like it. I don’t know if it was his encouragement in my ear, or if it was his attention focused solely on my pleasure. Maybe it was the way he seemed to read exactly where to touch—how to touch—when to touch. Maybe it was a combination of it all. I shot off like a goddamn rocket.
Still, the fucking guilt.
“You okay in here, babe?” Chante asks from outside the stall I’ve barricaded myself in.
I’m not working tonight. Instead, I’m being tortured with a fun evening out with Chante, Caleb, and a couple of the nurses from Chante’s hospital. Of course, the whole thing was her idea, and even though I tried to get out of it, she refused to hear any of my excuses.
“If vomiting all over the place is considered okay, then yes, I’m terrific.”
“Good,” she replies, ignoring my sarcasm. “Get your ass out here, chug some mouthwash and let’s get back on the dance floor.”
“Mouthwash?” I challenge. “Where did you get mouthwash?”
“Really, Zadie, do you even need to ask? My resourcefulness shouldn’t surprise you.”
It doesn’t. Nothing about my best friend surprises me. Except her continued refusal to discuss the—annoyingly enormous—secret she’s keeping. It’s so elusive, so closely guarded, I’m starting to believe I made the whole thing up.
For a while, I thought she was embarrassed. I thought maybe she’d wanted to talk about Caleb moving in, before it happened. Except, Chante’s never embarrassed. Besides, I still catch a strange look on her face from time-to-time, and she’s still acting weird. Well, weird for Chante, she’s always a little off-beat.
She took me out for breakfast the other day. Breakfast. And it wasn’t after a night of bar hopping or right after a shift at the hospital. She woke up early just for waffles. Well, I ate waffles, she had egg whites and some weird smoothie thing that she claimed to be cleansing. The whole scenario was bizarre.
“Hand it over,” I demand as I step out of the stall, motioning to the mini bottle of mouthwash she’s dangling at me. After thoroughly swishing, rinsing, and repeating, I let Chante know, “I don’t think I’m up for any more dancing. I’m going to get dehydrated.”
“Nonsense,” she says, pulling a bottle of water out of thin air. “Just don’t act like such a spaz on the dance floor and you’ll be fine.”
“Spaz?” I ask, trailing after her as she leads the way out of the washroom.
“Yes, spaz, you know... with all the flailing you do.”
I’m about to argue with her, to tell her that I do not flail, but her attention is caught by someone else. A man I’ve never seen before beckons to her from the side of the dance floor. She flushes pink—something else I’ve never seen before—and then giggles like a schoolgirl.
What the hell?
“Sorry, babe,” she gushes over the din of the music. “I can’t say no to that one. You should go find a friend, and when I say friend, I mean Caleb. I’m going to be a while. In fact, I probably won’t come back, so don’t wait up.”
Without a second glance my way, she strides urgently toward the devilishly handsome man with golden blond hair. He watches her with an intense gaze—it’s so accusing, even though he’s not looking at me, I feel like I’m in trouble. It’s unnerving and intimidating. Even his smile is fierce. And, I realize, he is smiling—a devious but huge, blinding white smile—like he’s ecstatic to see her. The smile and the look in his eyes becomes more heated, more aggressive, the closer Chante gets.
Who is this guy?
I watch in awe as my bold, outspoken best friend turns into a creature of submission. With her head slightly bowed she approaches, and when she reaches him, waits for him to make the first move. At first he does nothing—except continue to look at her with a mix of lust and something that might be devotion. But then he speaks, or maybe he demands, and Chante visibly shudders. When he bends his head to her, she looks up to him as though in prayer. And when he roughly grasps her chin, she opens for him. Right before he devours her whole.
Holy shit.
I’m stunned. I’m also a little turned on, I won’t lie. I’ve never thought myself a voyeur, but their display is hard to ignore, and I’d have to be blind to miss how hot they are together.
Thankfully, I’m not subjected to much more. After one long, erotic kiss—his hand firmly digging into her backside, pulling her roughly into him—they leave. I might have just stood here, watching them all night, otherwise.
Maybe the pregnancy hormones are turning me into a pervert.
I don’t dwell on the thought or the scene I just witnessed. I certainly don’t want to envision the fabulous sex my bestie’s about to have. I can’t let the knowledge that she’s got a secret man work its way into my brain any further.
Guzzling my water, I decide to make my way to the lounge. The place is crowded tonight. People mingle and dance everywhere, making it difficult to get from one end of the room to the other. Normally, I’d walk the outskirts of the dance floor to get to the lounge from here, but even that path is full. So, I decide to cut straight through the middle instead.
I’m too warm. With so many gyrating bodies packed into one place, the heat feels inescapable. It doesn’t help that I’m already overheated from Chante and her mystery man’s sexy display.
When I make it past the center of the room, I let out the anxious breath I’ve been holding, just before I’m grabbed from behind. Rough, clammy hands bite into my hips, forcefully pulling me backward into a wall of smelly, sweaty man.
“Where you going?” a coarse voice taunts in my ear, the smell of alcohol wafting on his stale breath.
“Hey, Jean-Paul, aren’t you supposed to be working tonight?” I subtly dig my elbow into his gut as I attempt a respectable distance between me and his nastiness.
“You’re not the only one who gets nights off. Or don’t you think I should be allowed to have fun?” His hold doesn’t loosen as he steps to my side and peers down at me.
“Of course you should, don’t be silly.”
“So, what d’ya say? You going to grind up on me a little—help make my night really fun?”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Struggling in his hold, I push my elbow even further into his stomach, hoping he gets the message. “No, J.P. I think you’ve had too much to drink.”
This is how assholes get away with molesting women in a crowd. Despite my yelling, I’m barely audible over the music. The way he’s holding me is no different than half a dozen of the couples around us. His hands dig further into my sides, making it impossible for me to go anywhere. “Oh, come on, Zee. Just one dance,” he pleads in my ear.
I’m considering how much damage my heel can do to his foot. Or his balls.
“Take your fucking hands off her, now.”
Cal.
Like a knight in shining armor, he sweeps in to save the day. Except, looking up at him, I see a man I barely recognize. He’s angry. So fucking angry. The scariest looking white knight I’ve ever seen. Anger vibrates off him in a radiant heat, projecting the strength of a million suns.
It’s glorious. He’s fucking glorious.
With him standing next to me, I’m no longer warm, I’m on fire.
The tension of his jaw. The hard veins popping in his neck. The energy of his bunched shoulders. And his eyes. God, those eyes seem to shoot flame from the shadow his long hair casts across his beautifully chiseled face. He’s burning me up with his brilliant intensity.
“What’s it to you?” Jean-Paul stupidly asks, with no regard for his own personal safety.
“She’s here with me,” Caleb grits out. “And she told you no. That’s two more reasons than you deserve or need. So, what’s it going to be?”
The grip around my waste slackens and I use the opportunity to pull away with one final punch of my elbow to his gut.
Caleb’s arm is around me in a flash, leading me away. We don’t stop. He uses his height and his lean muscle to shield me from the crowd,
maneuvering me easily to the end of the dance floor and into the lounge.
“Are you okay?” he asks, once we’re standing safely away from the dancers. His arm is still slung across my shoulders in a protective gesture.
“I’m fine, thanks.” Turning into him I place my hand on his chest and look up into his stormy eyes. “Even though I could have handled him on my own, I’m really glad I didn’t have to. You made it look easy.”
“You shouldn’t have to deal with dickbags like that. They shouldn’t be allowed to function.”
“Down boy,” I tease, patting his sternum lightly. “I really am fine. He’s just drunk. I still have to work with him, though. So, thank you for not punching him in the face, and for dragging me away before I could punch him in his junk.”
His arm around my shoulders flexes, pulling me in. “I didn’t like seeing you like that.” Giving into his pull, I step forward, until our bodies are almost flush. Securing my arms around his middle, I hug him softly, as he says, “I didn’t like the idea that he could hurt you.”
“He wouldn’t have—”
“Maybe not, but he could have. It’s more than that, though, Zadie... I didn’t like seeing his hands on you. Unwanted or not, I don’t like the idea of another guy touching you.”
The waiver of his voice is like a wound—painful and distressing. The strain of this friendship evident in his words, in his touch. The longing in his voice, only challenged by the ache between my thighs. He’s hard enough to resist normally. But add in his chivalry, and words that make me feel like I’m something precious. He becomes irresistible.
I’m hopeless.
So I step in even closer, squeezing my arms more firmly around him—my hands plastered to his solid frame. He squeezes me back, his mouth resting against the top of my head, and... holy fuck... his erection pressing into my stomach.
His breathing is ragged. “Zadie, the only hands I want to see on you are mine.”
“Cal, we shouldn’t.” My protest is weak. Pathetic, really. Taking a deep breath, I try to find some resolve, but all I manage to do is press my, now throbbing, breasts into him some more.