Fox (Bodhi Beach Book 1)

by SM Lumetta

  “You know I don’t feel secure about that.”

  I gape at him. “You are so… ugh. I got this.”

  I immediately start undressing.

  “Whoa, whoa. I thought we were going to eat, Netflix, and then baby making?” He’s serious, by the way.

  “Watch this,” I tell him and walk out of his bedroom topless in my favorite cut-off jean shorts. They’re not only super comfy, but make my ass look hot and my legs a mile long.

  I open the door and see the pizza guy who’s no older than twenty, I’m sure. He turns to look and say hello, but nothing comes out but “guhhhh” and his mouth never closes again. Cue the drool.

  “Hi there,” I say, sweet as pie. “Thank you so much!”

  I take the pizza and hold the box under my boobs, which of course draws his attention. I lick my lips as I notice he’s also sporting a decent erection.

  “We’re good, right?” I ask, the question covered in syrup.

  “Guhhhhh.”

  “Have a good night, honey,” I say with a wink, and close the door.

  I turn to set the pizza down on the counter, but stop cold when I see Fox. His fists are clenched and he’s looking kind of Cro-Magnon.

  “The fuck was that about?” he grinds out.

  “Um, I just got you a free pizza, dumbass,” I explain.

  “Naked,” he says, as if that clears things up. “You answered the door naked.”

  “You think he’s going to go back and tell them we didn’t pay? Even if he does, there’s no way he’s going to tell them a chick answered the door and put her tits in his face.”

  He doesn’t speak, just glares.

  I pop a hand on a hip. “You could say, oh… I don’t know, thanks!”

  “Seriously?”

  “What?” I’m genuinely confused as to what the issue is right now. “It was just topless. It’s legal to be topless in public in a bunch of states.” Valid argument, I think.

  “YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN TOTALLY NAKED!” he shouts. “Don’t you know there are perverts out there?”

  Well, now I am utterly amused. I stare at him with eyes wide and an openmouthed grin. “Well you’re a perv and yet I’m not only your friend, but I’m sliming your banana for some pancake batter!”

  He stops, possibly grossed out.

  “And by pancake batter, I mean baby batter, of course.”

  Still silent. More glaring.

  “Jizz.”

  His shoulders drop and his head tips to the side, eyes pleading.

  “Semen?” I squeak out.

  “YES! I got it!” He’s still really loud.

  “Okay, then let’s eat,” I say and flip open the pizza box.

  “Aren’t you going to put your shirt back on?” he asks.

  “No.”

  He takes the pizza slice out of my hand and sets it back in the box.

  “Hey, why—”

  I’m unable to continue, though, because he’s physically attached to me. At the mouth. And, really, the rest of me, too. He backs me against the door and kisses the hell out of me.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” he grumbles, but I sense trapped amusement in his chest. “Jesus, you’re crazy.”

  “Jesus is not crazy,” I say between pants.

  He laughs breathily and tugs my shorts and underwear off. I magnanimously help by stepping out of them.

  “First round now,” he says. “Then we eat, Netflix, and fuck. Again. Round—”

  “Shut. Up,” I order before jumping and wrapping my legs around him. All the caveman snarling got me a little hot. Fresh air on the cooch is a bit chilly, indicating a highly hydrated situation down south at the Playa del Sophie.

  His pants are already around his ankles, and it must be laundry day (or week) because he’s freeballing it. I’m sliding up and down, his boner boat testing the gate to my comfy slip before he parks it inside.

  The thought forces an awkward guffaw, but because Fox knows me so well, he runs his lips along my chin before he asks, “What sex metaphor did you come up with now?”

  I sigh, but keep my ocean motion going. “Boner boat in my comfy slip,” I manage. Barely. It was barely English, really—more like a donkey’s bray disguised as words.

  He stills completely and leans his forehead on my shoulder. He emits a long, deep sigh that shakes by the middle. “I hate you,” he tells me, a smile shaping his voice into low rumbling laughter.

  “Clearly,” I say.

  That spurs him to move again with more pressure. The extra friction feels so goddamn good, I let out a strangled, dying-animal sound that is supposed to indicate my pleasure. Thankfully he doesn’t find this as funny as my inner audience. In fact, I feel him ease the head inside and hear him release a moan that breaks in the middle. He sounds like a horny thirteen-year-old. Or that pizza guy.

  I want to laugh at him, but after the noise I just made—and let’s be real, I’ll probably make a bunch more of those soon—I don’t. Not to mention, my back slams against the door at the same time he pushes all the way.

  “Oooh, oh. My. Gawd!” I declare. “Yes! Yes, please.”

  He grunts and starts moving in earnest. “Fucking hell, this feels so good. I really really really like not wearing a condom.”

  I cackle because he must not have realized each “really” was punctuated with a thrust. “So good.”

  “Bite me,” he hisses, but I can tell he’s amused.

  “Later if you want,” I tease and he growls again. Like, legit growls. For whatever reason, the sound and the vibration of his chest against mine pulls an impending orgasm on deck. That “O” is ready to crest and ride it all the way to the beach. “Oh… oh, shit. I’m, uhhhhh, goodness.”

  Fox ignores whatever I start babbling and shuts me up with a kiss—and I have to say, the man is probably the best kisser I’ve tangled tongues with. So, ya know, bonus. I don’t even care that my skin is starting to rub a little raw against the door. He’s found one of my breasts with one hand and plays, twisting my nipple gently and tugging. I moan into his mouth and hook my feet together behind his back.

  He takes that as a sign to let go of my hips and focus all his upper-torso attention on my boobs. His lips leave mine as his palms seal themselves to the sides of the girls, and he takes one nipple in his mouth. My head knocks back on the door.

  “Is someone here?” He lifts his face and almost drops me. His voice is panicky, but laced with irritation. “Shit, is the pizza guy back?”

  I lose it. For real, this time. Big, ugly laughing. “It was”—I pause, gasping for breath impossibly between words—“my head.”

  The last word comes out as a squeal, it was so high pitched.

  “I’m trying to make a baby here, and you freak me out like that?” he snaps, but he’s trying not to lose it. “Focus.”

  “You focus,” I order and point at my chest. “Get back to the nipple twins, jackass. I was halfway to O-town!”

  This time, he breaks, chuckling. He pushes his body against mine hard as I’d begun to slip down. “Dammit, Sophie,” he mumbles from between my boobs. He says something else, but it’s too muffled. Ta ta interference.

  “Christ, let’s just eat the pizza,” I mutter, but Fox has other plans. His tickling murmurs in Tit Valley turn to nuzzles, and those become kisses and licks. The distraction works and I groan. “Unnng… ohhhhkay, fuck me, then.”

  He makes a deep groaning sound that’s relatively territorial and partially “caveman take woman,” but I know I’m reading too much into it.

  The audience rolls with a quiet whisper of discussion. I tell them to shut up.

  “What?” Fox asks. Crap, I must have said shut up out loud.

  “Huh? Go on, man! Do it up!” I shout, rambling. “Ride ’em, cowboy! Full speed ahead!”

  The noises he makes sound distinctly like his voice cracked. Between whatever that was and the dual feeling he’s giving me on my chest and inside me, my head falls back and hits the door agai
n.

  “It was me,” I pant, worried he’ll stop again. “Keep going!”

  A grunt tells me he had no intention this time. His pace increases. Sweat that has trickled down my spine gets between my ass and the door, and now we’re squeaking. The funny-er part is that it gives neither of us pause. I don’t even know what he’s doing to my left nipple right now, but it’s a direct line to my pussy pearl and I am this close.

  He moans and grunts and grinds his teeth together, which tells me he’s about to come. My responding moan is loud and keening, and a precursor to a powerful orgasm ripping through me. The euphoric feeling seems to explode and disperse itself from where we’re connected, up through my chest, and outward to the tips of my fingers and toes.

  I feel Fox still and press me against the door as all his muscles lock in his own release. He just breathes for a second and kisses high on my neck near the hairline while gripping my ass.

  I snicker and softly say, “Perv.” My voice sounds strange to my ears.

  He nudges my earlobe with his nose, breathing heavily and, from the sound of it, smiling.

  I swear, I’ve had so much sex this past week that if I’m not pregnant, I’ll be convinced the egg sacs and baby cave have already crumbled to dust.

  “So,” he says finally, pulling away to look at me. “You need to hang upside down now or what?”

  “What are you talking about?

  “To keep all the baby juice up in there.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “It’s not crucial, but can help. What have you got to lose?” Instead of putting me down, he walks us over toward the couch. With a legit straight face, he tells me, “Foxy doctor says lie down.”

  Clearly that’s my cue to laugh. He Kermit faces. I laugh harder.

  “I’m serious, Fordham! On your back with your legs in the air.” With that, I literally fall from his grip onto the cushions. I’m cracking up so hard, I can barely breathe. When I finally calm enough to speak, I remind him—my legs have remained in the air, by the way, “You’re not a doctor.”

  “No, I’m better—I’m a nurse. But I play doctor sometimes.” Fox waggles his goddamn eyebrows.

  As I perform an impromptu yet hella shitty upside-down ballet with my legs, I ruin my retort with snickering. “You’re so full of yourself.”

  He grins, full and evil. “You’re full of me, too.”

  My legs bend, wilted with disgust. “I hate you so much right now.”

  I give Fox the next week “off” since the fertility window has supposedly closed, but the resulting conversation goes something like this:

  “It might not be the best wave, but it may still be worth a ride.”

  Yeah, I know. He’s ridiculous.

  Of course, I say, “You still wanna?”

  “Bring it on, Fordham. Don’t be a paddlepuss.”

  I hate that he uses surfer talk against me. But it works. Twist my arm.

  Thankfully, for the sake of my hoo-ha and my job, we scale it back a bit. He has a couple of extra shifts to cover, one of which is a double overnight, so it works out for both of us.

  After the first few weeks, our little “agreement” results in something like thirteen sleepovers. Mostly at my house as Fox is concerned that people stop by his place all the time and would interrupt. I don’t fully believe it, so I wonder if it’s more about keeping this a secret. I can’t fault him there, because it’s no one’s business and it’s not like I’m spreading the news far and wide. At the same time, I see no reason to be ashamed. At the same same time, I hear my annoying mental audience smacking their lips and heckling me with the voice of doubt. Is he ashamed?

  I shake the thoughts away. My monthly visitor has the gall to show up on time this month, which pisses me off, given that my reproductive system has been largely absentminded and possibly weeble-wobbling onto the fast track to ovarian dementia. Oh, don’t you worry. She got her shit straight now!

  Having received the first real smack of failure on this journey, I call Nora.

  “Hiya, missus,” she answers cheerily. “How’s that bun in your oven?”

  I sigh mournfully. “I love your optimism.”

  “Ahh, shit,” she groans, her cheer slipping. “No go?”

  It’d be sweet if she could just predict everything I’m going to say. “The communists are in the funhouse as we speak.”

  “Well, fuckity shit.” Her immediate reaction is one of the reasons I love her so much. Sometimes I think we share a brain. Even so, she doesn’t stir the stew with me for long. “First try, though, right? It would have been super damn lucky if it took right away, so really, this isn’t even a failure. This is just, uh, fine tuning. Like you’re working out the kinks.”

  We both go silent. I crack first with a bizarre sounding cough.

  “Kinks,” she says, the word strained between her vocal cords. And with that, we both lose it. It’s a good five minutes before we stop tossing BDSM and spanking jokes at one another.

  “Oh hell,” I say with a sigh. “I needed that. I know you’re right, Nor. I just… I’m a—”

  “Feckin’ gobshite,” she supplies, purposefully laying on the Irish extra thick. “Sorry. I meant to say perfectionist.”

  “Twat waffle.”

  We pause to exchange a few more pleasantries.

  “Have you told Fox yet?” she asks.

  The truth is I’m afraid to. What if he’s irritated because I will monopolize more of his sacred dick time? Okay, that’s unfair to say. He’s getting laid, at the very least. Right? It’s more likely that I’m afraid because I don’t want things to change. I don’t want him to resent me for locking him down longer than he wanted. Sure, he agreed to it, but maybe he assumed it wouldn’t take a bunch of cycles. He may work in medicine and has actually delivered babies, but fertility is not his expertise.

  Still, I decide to soften the blow by taking him some of his favorite beer. It’s from a brewery in New Zealand and a rarity in these parts, but I know a guy who works for a beer distributor who located some for me. Thankfully, it was at a shop close enough that it didn’t take a shit-ton of effort to get it.

  When I get to Fox’s house, Doc’s just leaving. He props his surfboard against the wall in the garage as I walk up.

  “Sophie!” he calls, pulling me into a hug. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages, love. How’ve you been?” Doc’s from Sydney originally, and if I recall correctly, just went to visit his sister and her new baby for a few weeks, so his accent is particularly potent today.

  For some reason, I feel dumb enough that I don’t know how to answer for fear of being figured out. “Fine, you know, um. The usual, I guess. Heh.”

  The audience stares at me in abject horror.

  Maybe Doc won’t notice.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, holding me at arm’s length to give me a once-over. “You look all right, but you sound like you’ve had a closed head injury. Falling off the board again?”

  I chuckle, some of the dumbassedness released like air from a balloon. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Just tired. I haven’t been on a board in a few months,” I admit. I notice a new rosy scar on his shoulder and ask, “How are you? Blowing shit up at work, or what?”

  He grins wickedly. Doc works as a stunt coordinator, often performing stunts when needed. Most of his injuries are minor, thankfully, because though he’s a daredevil, he’s really good at his job.

  “Training newbies,” he tells me. “Sometimes it backfires, but you know—”

  “Chicks dig scars,” I supply.

  “Turned on, are you?”

  I laugh heartily, and he winks. He good-naturedly taps my shoulder and turns to put the board he’d leaned on the wall away properly in its rack. Once it’s secure, he waves for me to follow him inside.

  “I notice you have someone’s favorite pilsner, so let’s see if he’s interested, eh? You’re lucky I have to get going, or I’d charm those right off you.”

  “Are you talking about the
beer or my pants?” I tease as I follow him inside. He hoots, but gives me a wink. For a moment, I feel normal, joking with one of my guys.

  “Hey, Cinderfella,” he calls, walking into the living room. “You have a lady caller.”

  “What? What the—” The mild panicky-irritation is not what I expected at all.

  “Jesus, man, it’s just Sophie.” His relief when it’s just me leaves my head spinning a little. It’s not like his conquests have never stopped by uninvited, though he’s usually quite clear with his hookups that it is indeed a hookup and not a relationship.

  There’s something off about the way he says my name. Not bad, but unusual. Then I realize we haven’t told any of our mutual friends what’s going on with us these days. I mean, Fox is aware Nora knows, and we both know she won’t talk about everything behind my back.

  I stick out my tongue at Fox and hold up the beer.

  “Holy shit. Is it my birthday again?” he asks with a wink. “What are you buttering me up for? Do you need a kidney? Part of my liver?”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be much of a fair trade would it? Probably ruined by now,” Doc snarks. “Though how hilarious would that be? Trading alcohol for a severely taxed liver?”

  “Fuck off, mate,” Fox says. “My liver’s made of steel.”

  “Okay, Superman,” I say.

  Doc doesn’t stay much longer. They’d apparently spent the morning on their boards, as they usually do on Fox’s off days, which seem more often than not. The jerk’s got a sweet schedule as a nurse, though I’m not sure how he pulls the twelve- or eighteen-hour shifts.

  “So what’s the deal? Who did you have to blow to find me some Emerson’s?” he jokes, but then rethinks it. I snicker as his expression falls into a serious mode. “Though, should you really be blowing someone else right now? That seems unfair. Not to mention I’m not even getting blow jobs in this arrangement.”

  Dropping a glare at him, I roll my eyes before he even reacts to it, which would probably just be a laugh. “I come bearing bad tidings,” I say.

  His lips purse before stretching into a smirk.

  I know what’s next.

  “You usually come with all sorts of profanity, that’s true.”