by Sunniva Dee
“Smart-mouth,” he hums, silencing me.
“All righty, then.” Arriane clicks off on high heels.
My nipples contract at Cameron’s closeness. We’ve been playing this game since the day I started working at Smother. There’s bickering. Little touches. We dance together, mostly before the doors open to the patrons. After closing time, we might go to the Blood Bank, another bar down the street, and if I get drunk, I tend to end up in Cameron’s lap.
It’s strange to know someone’s body without having been intimate, I think as he glides his nose alongside mine. I know every hard ridge of him. His rock-hard thighs below the swell of his ass. The feel of his waist when my arms go around and hold on in a dance.
Cameron’s scent. He always smells like he’s fresh from the shower. It’s a pine-and-soap combo that just makes me happy.
Robin cuts off my musings with a blast of bass and drums. The beat is intoxicating, and Cameron’s hands move over my hips. He pulls me against him and starts swaying. We do this so well together. It’s rare that we miss out on Robin’s pre-doors sound check, and by now we know each other’s every move.
I do a little twirl, and he catches me, laughing. Draws me tight again and launches me into a playful dip against the floor. I can’t help comparing him to Bo.
Cameron is life. A delightful summer day. Obviously, he’s American—I don’t know his heritage—but with his light tan, the thick, overgrown blond hair and blue-green eyes, he looks more Swedish than Bo does. He’s a similar height, slender but muscular. And he’s sunny. Sunny, sunny, sunny. If I were to choose a color for this boy, I’d choose orange.
Bo is brooding. Feelings and hurt and girls swooning. Me too, for way too long. His body is wiry thin and whiter than sandstone. Not a gram of fat softens his form. He rarely laughs, and when he does, it’s with pointy canines in a grimace that isn’t as beautiful as he is. It’s like he wasn’t born to smile.
I look up at Cameron as he nudges me into a quick pirouette on the floor. When he flashes me a panty-dropping grin, I die a little imagining him sad or brooding. This utterly charming boy was born for smiling. I’ve never witnessed him upset in any way; a hint of protectiveness hits me just thinking about how he wouldn’t be Cameron anymore if he were upset.
The last half hour before opening passes quickly. It’s Tuesday, so only one doorman, Jason, will be on duty. Arriane’s got the bar ready by the time Christian shows up. He’s late today, but not too late to pick up where Arria left off twenty minutes ago.
“Inga, hey. For the love of God—get rid of the jeans, okay? Black. Bar. Slacks. You know the drill. Have you ever given Leon a break on this?” Christian says, frowning at me.
“I came early, all right? I wasn’t about to dance with Cameron in uniform pants, silly,” I explain. Cam passes by with a keg of Coors Light and snort-laughs at me.
“Yeah, Christian—don’t ruin the fun. Ingela’s pants are delicious, especially the ass.” The idiot actually puts the beer down to squeeze imaginary butt cheeks in the air. Then, he moves on to a dead-on imitation of sneaking a hand past the ripped part back there. I slug him in the back, and he ouches out loud like a baby.
“You’re such a weakling!”
“Inga, no—you’re too fucking strong. Someone get me to the ER,” he moans, “I need a season pass there with you around.”
I’m still impressed with his figurative butt-squeezing skills. I’m damn used to the actual thing by now, but—
“You should consider a future as a, um… what do you call it? A meme?”
“What?” Arriane is close enough to hear. She frowns and shoots Cameron that look I’m also used to by now, the one saying, “What’s the foreigner talking about?”
“A-ha,” Cameron starts, and before I know it, he has launched into that breathy chuckle I’m so fond of. I check out his abs as he enjoys whatever he thinks is funny. Love it when he wears a tight T-shirt like tonight, because it really showcases his lick-worthy six-pack. “She means a mime, Arria.”
“What I said, Cam,” I say.
He pulls out his iPhone to show me the difference between the two, and I lose interest about four seconds in. Thankfully, Leon, our almighty, awesome, and super-cool boss, descends the stairs in all his glory. Leon misses nothing. Now, of course his light blue eyes that contrast strongly with his natural latte tan zoom in on my lack of uniform. Almost imperceptibly, he lifts one eyebrow. I can’t help sending Arria a glance even though I already know her reaction. Sure enough, she shrugs out a “Duh.”
“I’m on it, boss!” I scream as loud as I can over the music. Everyone’s all about mouthing stuff and whispering in each other’s ear at this place. I have no idea why people don’t just yell. Belt it out already.
Leon lowers his eyelids. From the last step of the stairs, he crosses his arms and waits until I throw my hands in the air and scamper off to change. As I pass Cameron, he enunciates, incorrigible to me and dodges my backhand last minute.
Ingela and I are at the Blood Bank. We started sneaking drinks toward the end of our shift at Smother. Not that it’s much sneaking, really. Leon is too street-smart to think everyone pays for each sip and stays off the booze entirely during work hours.
Ingela’s tipsy already. She changed back into her favorite ripped jeans before we left work, a memorable event; she insisted I come along to the ladies’ room so she could lean on me while hopping out of one pair of pants and into another. The girl’s got some legs on her.
The Blood Bank’s closed, so we’re having a mixed staff party between Smother colleagues and BBs—the Blood Bank bartenders. The BBs’ boss is a sedate old guy who doesn’t stay on top of things. Most nights he’s out of the bar early, leaving the show to the BBs. On such occasions, like tonight, we get the heads-up text message and end up here to wind down before bedtime.
Now, a few of them have fun inventing drinks none of us would dream of selling to customers. One of the BB girls studies foreign languages by day, and she has taken it upon herself to give the drinks names. So far, they’re all named the equivalent of “suicide”—zelfmoord; suicidio; kamikaze, of course; selbstmord; and a whole slew of others. The shot glasses seem to brim higher for each round.
Ingela’s getting tired. She has a tiny bit of makeup smeared beneath one eye. Now she closes the other one so she can focus better.
“Got room?” she asks, jutting her chin at my lap. There’s a chair available right next to me. I widen my knees and stretch my legs out enough for her to see that I can accommodate her. Hell yeah. I always have room for Ingela.
She slumps down awkwardly, letting out a heavy sigh. I scoop her closer and wrap my arms tight around her.
“Sleepy?” I ask unnecessarily. After-hours, especially if Ingela is drunk, she likes to cuddle with me. This late, she doesn’t swat me off when I touch her. Neither does she offer a snide retort that’s slightly misquoted.
I nuzzle into the shampoo of her hair. It’s so blonde it’s almost white. A Swede thing, I love to tell her, and she’s always eager to refute it. Sometimes, she uses her dark-haired Swedish ex as an example.
I push away the bangs that reach below her ear in some sort of modern, half fluffy thing. The short do is sexy as hell—totally different to anyone else around these parts.
“Mm-hmm—no,” she answers my question, changing her mind mid-way between the yes and the no. “Just want to chill, ya know.” Then, like a little kid, she yawns, her body responding to the sound with an unconscious cat stretch in my arms. Not unexpectedly, my dick wakes beneath her.
For now, all has been playful and silly between Ingela and me, but one of these days, I’ll work up the guts to proposition her in earnest.
“No, you don’t get the whole effect unless you keep your eyes open and down the shot in one sitting,” Robin tells a BB girl.
“But it’s so gross,” she complains. He grins wide, fully aware of how intense the taste is.
“Tomato juice and shitty rum mixed
with banana liqueur? You’re such a wuss, Beth,” someone says. It causes sleepyhead Inga to snicker into my shoulder. I push her hair away. Pull her up enough to lean my cheek and nose against her temple for another whiff of her. She smells good.
“Anyone tried it with bourbon instead of rum?” I ask. My hand slides over the naked skin between Inga’s shirt and belt. It’s smooth and delicious, and I swallow, realizing I miss my rush. It’s been a day and a half since I came down from the mountain with a broken finger. I shouldn’t go up there again until the mini-cast is off. I wonder if I can pry it off before the big trip next weekend. Anyway. A quick little rush can be many things.
Sex, for instance. Damn straight, sex is a major high. I curve a hand around Inga’s waist, kneading, and she lets out a happy sigh. Some tumbles are more exciting than others, of course. Some chicks are more fiery than others.
I look down Inga’s supermodel body. She’s skinny, muscular in a feminine way and almost as tall as me. Small, firm breasts. I know they’re firm because I’ve felt her up more than once. I want to feel them right now, actually. I wonder if she’d consider me as a fuck buddy if I worked up the nerve to ask? The thought of that high I crave so badly tenses my jaw.
I inch my hand up across her belly, covering my move from an audience with the other arm. Ingela squirms to get more comfortable in my lap. She lifts her elbow enough for me to sneak up even higher under her shirt.
I’m easy. Just the thought of this little indiscretion makes my adrenal gland squirt its drug into my blood. Is her bra too tight? Will she allow me to cup her boob right here between our friends?
I kiss her temple. A small grin plays on her sleepy mouth. To me, Ingela’s the ultimate girl. Ever since she first cussed me out with a big smile on her face, since she gave me a bite mark on my upper thigh in a make-believe bar brawl, I’ve been in deep. For a girl, she’s fucking up there.
Not that I love her. No, people I simply enjoy being with. I don’t love them. Well, obviously Mom—my big bro, Patrick, the hotshot pilot. But that’s it. At thirteen, I realized that the only thing I’ve ever really loved is the sensation of being one hundred percent alive. In the everyday grind—school, work, colleagues, friends—you merely trot along. There’s no gallop, no living to the max.
No mental, wicked, ace living.
I grin wide.
“What’s that face for?” BB girl Beth squints my way. She’s got a thing for me, probably because I’ve never fucked her and she’s curious. I’ve had several of her colleagues. BB girls are easier lays than Smother girls.
Robin snorts. “Bet he’s thinking about next weekend. Dude’s got the weekend off and is spending his tip money on stupid shit.”
I laugh at that, and Ingela groans, uncomfortable at my chest rocking against her.
“What’re you doing?” Beth asks. “Something extreme again?” Her eyes go to my broken finger.
I shrug the shoulder Ingela isn’t resting on. “I heal fast. Plus, the ticket’s been paid for since Christmas. I’d go with a broken back.”
Beth sucks in a girly breath, and I smell acting. “Oh, don’t say that—you’re jinxing yourself, Cam. Don’t get hurt out there.”
She’s full of it. I always get myself hurt.
“Don’t go,” Ingela slurs.
“What, darlin’?” I drawl out. Clearly, I’ve heard wrong.
“Don’t. Go.” She doesn’t say it louder, just more pronounced.
“Hmm. You’ll miss me now?” She arches her back the tiniest bit, and it’s the little shift I need to slip a few digits in under her bra. Five seconds later, I’ve cupped that sweet little tit of hers. So soft and warm.
“Perv,” she tells me but doesn’t object to my groping ways. “Where’re you going? You’ve said nothing about leaving me.”
Ingela all needy? Is adorable.
“To Whistler, baby! You know Dan and Marek, right?”
She pushes her palm flat against my chest to sit up. Unfortunately, I have to let go of her breast. “Uh-huh, the wild-looking guys who do whatever with you all the time? One with a beard?”
“Yep, that’s them. Dan’s from up there, and his buddy owns a helicopter service. They’re dropping us off in Bumfuck Nowhere so we can snowboard down to civilization. It’ll be epic.”
“And way steep, right? Dangerous as shit?”
A quick spurt of anticipation runs through me, making me smirk. “Fuck yeah.”
“Seriously, dude. You should get better hobbies. Why don’t you… mmm—what do you call it, sticker-book?”
“Scrapbook?”
“Yeah, that. Much safer.” She nods and manages to widen her eyes for a second despite how tired she is. “Wanna go have breakfast?”
And that right there is why I love Ingela. Not really love but—you know. Even years after meeting her, I can’t predict what she’ll do and say next, and it’s not only due to her being a girl. The Swede’s just wired differently.
We leave Robin behind, and I tangle Inga’s fingers into a hold on the way to a small coffee shop midway between her house and the Blood Bank. As we get settled, side by side in a booth, she swings to me.
Whenever Ingela’s uncomfortable with a new expression or she doesn’t know how to use it properly, she hesitates before plunging in. Now, she hums tentatively before asking, “Why are you a, um, man whore?”
What?
“That’s not a nice thing to ask, is it?” I say.
“Do you care, though? If you did, you wouldn’t sleep with everyone, I think, right? Oh, and why haven’t you slept with Beth yet? She totally wants you.”
A plate of three over-easy eggs and toast without butter is scooted in between our coffees. I ask for a second fork. “I dunno, Inga, because you’re always there? Can’t just take off with Beth with you in my lap.”
She giggles, the answer seemingly making sense to her. When she turns to survey the street, I notice a spot above her neck where her hair is mussed. It’s not where she rested against me at the Blood Bank. Must have been like that at work too. I smile at the thought. Sloppy, genuine Ingela.
The top button of her shirt has slipped open. It always baffles me how tanned she is even in the dead of winter. She gives off that Scandinavian-on-vacation feel, and it’s so exotic to me. Hell, I’d bring her on vacation any day.
“You’re staring at my boobs, Cam. You know who’s a boob man?” Her mind goes a million miles per hour sometimes. “Leon. He still ogles Arriane’s boobs, even in public. He’s hilarious. Remember when she was pregnant and had giant mugs?”
“Jugs. Yeah.”
“Leon hardly looked at anything else,” she says. “Good thing Christian was there to run the club for him.” She slaps the table, laughing, and I’m relieved she didn’t aim at my back.
“Because she had incredible boobs—still does. You think she’s still breastfeeding and that’s why they’re huge?” I ponder out loud.
“Bah, now you’re just being rude.”
“Really? I swear, Inga, it’s a total hit-or-miss what’s rude and what’s not in your boo—”
I’m completely unprepared when she cuts me off with her lips. Sure. I know her body. I spend quality time during the week being physical with her, but this?
She’s hot against my mouth, a mixture of bubble gum, coffee, and salt from the eggs, surprising me as she suckles my upper lip in between hers. I’m onboard fast. This is probably one of her impulses that dissipates quicker than fog, so I cup her neck and grab her cheek with my other hand to assure that she doesn’t change her mind.
Oh, but she has no intention of changing her mind.
The kiss is moist, insanely delicious, and I make my lips slide over hers and my tongue conquer her warmth. I let out a groan. A short puff of air tells me she isn’t unaffected either. Oh fuck me, she’s better than I imagined in my wettest dreams.
“Do all Swedes kiss like goddesses?” I sort of grunt. She doesn’t answer, probably because she’s busy lighting my
body up like a Christmas tree. Or hey, maybe I’m that good? I definitely have the experience.
I squeeze her tighter and delve deeper into the kiss. This is fucking heaven on Earth. Damn if I care that we’re in a diner right now.
I need to have her closer than the booth allows. She’s—
Ah.
I link my arm lower, hook her waist, and press her in where it counts. She arches into me, making it better and worse at once.
“Cameron?” she huffs my name out like she’s not sure what’s going on. Really, it’s as clear as Leon’s precious VOSS water to me.
“Girl, you’re…” I start, but then I lose my train of thought because her mouth is so wet, so open to me, so willing. She makes me want tons more.
I own her mouth instead of talking. I slide my hand around her neck and let it rest below her ear, keeping her still. She better not move. This is it.
The moment is full. Saturated with what I crave.
Jesus H.
“Ah, Inga, I just—”
“You little boy,” she whispers before she returns to my lips. Her eyes are closed, lids trembling with the sensation I cause in her. Damn, how I like this.
“Two months younger. Big fucking deal,” I murmur into her. “I promise you I’m a big boy.”
Sadly, she draws out to laugh at me. It’s a low-key, bubbling laughter but still. She just abandoned our kiss.
“Time to find out?” she whispers.
Really? I cannot believe she said that. This is an invitation if there ever was one. Oh hell yeah, I’ll show her.
Fucking finally.
Since I met her, I’ve teased her with the size of my cock. Yeah, it’s big, but I might’ve exaggerated a tad, bringing it past the legendary porn star dudes’ sizes.
I give her a quick onceover, as if I haven’t done that nonstop since I first met her. Judging by her hips, the slenderness of everything about her, I can’t imagine her not being quite satisfied with what I have to offer.
She better not be a girl and back out last minute. Because I’m ready to share the love.
“Check, please.”