by Lia Riley
“If that’s the deep end, I don’t ever want to leave the kiddie pool.”
“What about this?” Marti points to a more realistically endowed creation.
“Neon green doesn’t scream sexy time. And seriously, what gives with the color? Looks like it has contracted an infection.”
“You’re picky.” Marti makes a judgy noise in the back of her throat.
I answer with a noise of my own. And a finger.
“Fine.” She takes my elbow, steers me toward a glass display case. “You’re choosy. Maybe this is good.”
“It is?” I spend five minutes trying to decide what socks to wear in the morning.
“Better to be, how do you say? Discriminating.”
In the end, Marti cajoles me with a classy pocket-sized vibrator called a Leora. Sounds rather cute, like a perky friend you’d meet for a gab over coffee. She’s white and vaguely obelisk, and pricier than the endowed competition. I fork money to the uninterested cashier and try not to overthink the fact that my grandpa’s inheritance is funding my first sex toy.
* * *
I sit cross-legged and stare at the white box on the center of my bed. Leora nestles inside. I give my dorm room a helpless scan. This is ridiculous. I’m twenty-one and haven’t the first clue about how to proceed. Marti might be pushy but she’s got a point. Time to quit whining and take responsibility—get all “sisters doing it for themselves.”
What about music? There we go. Brilliant idea. I shuffle to my iPad and select a moody dub album before catching my reflection in the mirror—skinny jeans and a vintage Ramones tee. Not so good. I’m overdressed for a date with myself. I wiggle from the tight denim. Leave it puddled on the floor. All I need now is a little inspiration.
I climb onto the bed and type the name Brandon Lockhart into the search engine. There’s a single picture of him online. He stands beside a podium to receive a scholarship. For once he’s clean-shaven. His jawline is strong if awkwardly clenched. His forced smile looks painful but still reveals those adorable dimples. My stomach fizzes like I gobbled a packet of Pop Rocks.
I ease Leora from the velvet-lined box. “Okay.” I roll onto my back, concentrating on Bran’s picture. “Let’s do this.”
Cool plastic touches my heat. Bran stares back with that uncomfortable, trapped expression. My gaze flicks to the ceiling stain, the one that resembles spilled tea. Hmmmm. Maybe I should close my eyes after all. Yes. Better. I hit the button and jump at the loud buzzing. Oh no. Will everyone hear? Know and judge my masturbation? Hard to stress because holy shit. My vagina startles awake with a “what the?” I jerk. My lower back arches from the bed. My thighs quiver. Holy fucking shit. Pulsing warmth builds between my legs. I grip Leora harder. If my clit had a voice, she’d hit operatic high notes.
Three mind-blowing orgasms later, I am reduced to a loosey-goosey-limbed mess, humming the theme song to Aladdin. Leora is stored under my bed before I literally kill myself from self-pleasure. Is that possible? Probably. There’s always too much of a good thing, right? Every action creates an opposing reaction and whatnot.
So that’s what I’ve been missing. Jeeeesus. I’m ready to pen an Ode to a Vibrator. Turns out my girl parts are indeed wired correctly. They just haven’t had the right sort of treatment.
Could a guy ever give me the same addictive rush?
Maybe one guy could.
After trying and failing to sleep for an hour, I jump on my e-mail. Nothing more from Bran. I reread his last one.
Can I see you?
What if he’s waiting for me to make a move?
I’m no longer Talia Sans Orgasm. I’m Talia Sex Goddess. Bold, confident, saucy. I can do this.
I one-finger-type my response.
Sure.
Chapter Ten
Talia
I haunt the Bean Counter because Bran mentioned he lived near the coffee shop. It’s a violation of the New Talia caffeine ban to drink myself into a severe jitter attack with several long blacks, the Australian version of an Americano. But what the hell, I’m not sure any of my best-laid plans are working out so well.
I recheck my e-mail and take short, fast breaths—two new messages. My neck prickles while I open my inbox.
Ack.
Only updates from Mom and Dad.
Bran’s killing me here. I reread his cryptic message for the billionth time.
Can I see you?
And my reply.
Sure.
A terrible thought occurs to me. If the coffee shop wasn’t filled to capacity, I’d bang my head on the table until I forgot my own name. What if he hadn’t meant to write this message to me? Or what if he changed his mind?
Gah. What-ifs are the worst.
Why did I ever freak out on him in the first place? I mean, there I was with a hot guy, in my room, being cool—wanting to take care of me. And I order him to leave.
But the look on Tanner’s face the moment he pushed inside of me is imprinted on my brain. The last twelve months haven’t erased the memory of the way he looked—pretending I was someone else. When I woke alone on the beach, hungover and cold, I swore that I’d never hook up with another guy who was in any way on the rebound.
But Bran isn’t Tanner. When Bran looks at me, it’s like he sees me—all of me. Even the irrational, bad parts I don’t like to notice.
I need to distract myself, so I read Dad’s short note. He chats mostly about the weather. A little boring because Santa Cruz comes in two flavors: sunny or foggy. He’d returned from a geological conference in Santa Barbara. On the way home he drove through Big Sur, stopped at Pfeiffer Beach. What’s left unsaid between his brief words gnaws my stomach lining. We scattered Pippa’s ashes on that windswept beach during a dreary, wet morning.
I try to swallow the painful lump gathering in the back of my throat. What if I’m no better than Mom? I left too. My heart ratchets into a panic-stricken rhythm.
No. The word bursts from my brain, gives me an involuntary start. I’m going to return home in the end.
I’m nothing like my mother.
Take her e-mail as a case in point.
To: Natalia Stolfi
From: Bee on the Island
Subject: Love & Light
Aloha Natalia!
Just returned from my first Bikram yoga class and another step toward divine balance. I’m also five days into the new master cleanse that Logan’s trialing. Today’s elixir is Tahitian noni juice, fresh squeezed lemon, agave, and cayenne pepper. Let me know if you want him to send you the menu.
Remember, honey, feel light—live light!
Bliss,
Mom
I mean—where do I even start? This coming from a woman who used to open cans of soup and call that dinner.
My e-mail pings again and I can’t contain an epic eye roll. Jesus, Mom—there is no part of me that wants to go on Logan’s crappy cleanse. Noni fruit smells nauseating, like Parmesan cheese left to rot in a public toilet stall.
Hold up. I do a double take at my computer screen. New message—Bran Lockhart.
My stomach flops like a breaching whale.
I close one eye and hit open. Oh, please, please, please. I’m not even 100 percent sure what I’m praying for. Mostly an avoidance of total self-humiliation.
You’re a woman of few words.
Relief drizzles through my veins like honey on a hot day.
Sometimes. I suck in my breath and hit send.
His response is immediate. You have a cute smile.
I trace my finger over my lower lip and take another sip of coffee.
Another ping. Is it true that American girls prefer nonfat-mocha-frappa-what-the-fuck lattes?
My head shoots up.
Wait, what? Is he here? Like here, here? I scan the crowded coffee shop but don’t recognize him at any of the tables.
I peck back my response. You’re not going all creepy stalker serial killer on me…are you?
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“I told you, Captain.” A deep whisper heats my ear. “I’m dangerous.”
I whip my head around. Bran’s sitting right behind me, striped stocking cap shoved over his unruly hair, sporting aviator sunglasses. If getting punched is ever good, that’s how I feel. “Are you kidding me? How long have you been here?”
“Since before you arrived.” He tipped onto two chair legs. “You’ve ignored me for at least an hour.”
“What’s with the incognito look?” Am I relaxed enough, cool and nonchalant? “You pretending to be a celebrity in hideout?”
He tugs off his shades and his green cat eyes glow. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
I snort. “Being a creeper?”
His lazy smile and accompanying dimples activate a previously unknown nerve that begins behind my eyes and ends between my legs. The Leora rewired my circuits during the last twenty-four hours and my body is ready for a little electricity. The sensations Bran elicits in me—yeah, I’ve got names for them now. Want. Desire. Need. I grind my thighs. At last I get what all the fuss is about. And I want more fuss. With Bran. Right now. His expression alters, almost imperceptibly, but enough to suspect he can tell that I masturbated the shit out of myself to him last night. And once this morning.
I peer into the murky brown liquid and my face reflects in miniature. I’m too wide-eyed, clearly overexcited. Need to settle, pretend like I’m halfway cool, collected.
He tugs off his hat and rumples his hair. His eyes flick to the healing cut beneath my left temple. “How’s the wound?”
“The perfect souvenir.” I trace the thin jagged line the surfboard sliced on my face. “Can’t wait to brag back home about how I wiped out and almost drowned in five inches of surf.”
“It was at least six inches.” He wraps his arms around the back of his seat. “You left your thongs in my car.”
I start. “My—oh, right. My flip-flops. I always think of the other kind of thongs. It messes with me.”
His answering smile is more than a little wolfish. “No, if you left those in my car, I wouldn’t give them back.”
“Pervert.” I wipe my hands on my jean skirt.
“Proudly.” There’s that dimple again. I kind of want to lick it.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I need to clear this up before we can tread another inch farther.
“No.”
“Have you recently gotten out of a relationship?”
“No.” When he watches me, it’s like I’m the only girl in the room, the only girl he’s ever seen. His awareness is magnetic, addictive, a total rush.
“Who’s Bella?”
“A friend.”
“I didn’t mean to check out the text, but she came across as more than a friend.”
“Maybe she’s the kind that came with occasional benefits. But that’s over. So, you want your shoes?”
I fight off the sharp stab of jealousy. He can’t be expected to live a monastic life. “Yeah, I should rescue them. Don’t want you sitting around sniffing my thongs.”
He laughs out loud, an infectious sound that rises over the coffee shop and is followed by the sound of shattering glass. I turn to see a vibrantly red-haired barista glaring behind the counter before she dips to collect whatever she dropped.
I tear a piece of my napkin and roll it into a little ball. “Apparently humor is frowned upon in these parts.”
“Isn’t that the MO of Hipsterland?”
I set my mouth. “You’d know.”
He kicks at my chair’s leg. A lock of his hair cuts across his cheekbone.
I want to tuck it back so bad.
“So…shall we beat it to my place?”
“When you put it that way, how can I resist?”
Breathe—just breathe. I am cool. I am collected. I am losing my shit.
He rises and mumbles to the floor tiles, “You know…I missed you, Captain.”
My stomach gives a delicious lurch at his unexpected sweetness.
The flame-haired barista shoots me a death stare while I shut down my laptop. Like I committed a capital offense by daring to joke and smile. I arch my eyebrow and she returns to wiping down the pastry case. Tough crowd.
“After you.” Bran grabs my bag from my hands.
“Seriously?”
He stares down at himself. “I must have at least one chivalrous bone in my body.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it a secret.”
“Thanks, don’t want to ruin my rep.”
“Guys who wear sunglasses indoors have to be careful about such things.” I give his chest a playful push, feeling the hard pectoral beneath.
I am calm. I am collected.
“How else can I covertly spy on you?” He grabs my hand and doesn’t let go.
I am calm, I am—fuck this. I want to touch him so bad that the need verges on painful.
“Next time bring a newspaper. It’ll be more subtle.”
“You didn’t notice me.” His smile’s a little smug.
“Sometimes I’m blind.”
His gaze intensifies. “Me too.”
He opens the door for me and we step into the sunlight.
Chapter Eleven
Talia
I never noticed Bran’s dingy terrace, veiled behind a thick bottlebrush hedge, during my previous neighborhood-recon jogs. The mildewed bricks appear ready to sprout mushrooms, and a basil sprig browns in a cracked pot at the entryway. He fiddles with the lock and the door swings open to reveal a dim corridor crammed with mountain bikes, mismatched shoes, and a cracked computer monitor.
A guy in plaid boxer shorts snores from the couch in the lounge room to my left. Chinese takeout props on his hairy gut and a cat perches on his chest, buried to the ears in the white noodle box. Acrobatic porn flashes on the flat screen while a bong tilts precariously between his pasty, splayed thighs.
“That’s hot. He a friend of yours?” I turn and discover Bran’s lips only inches from my own. He watches me in a lazy, hooded-eye way that makes it difficult to draw a full breath.
“Not exactly.” He snorts. “This place is just a dodgy share house. We all crash together for the cheap rent and killer location. Miles, over there”—he juts his chin at the snorer—“he’s a bouncer at one of the downtown nightclubs.”
“Wow, he looks charming.”
“Wait until he speaks.” Bran sidesteps a dirty sock and continues down the bleak hall, which smells of mold and old pizza.
I follow close at his heels. “Are you waiting for your trust fund to kick in, or what?”
He pivots until our hips graze. My belly performs a quick series of impressive gymnastics.
“Whoever said anything about trust funds, Captain?”
“I assumed…stop looking at me like that, will you? It’s just that you spoke about the private schools, fancy houses, rich parents, and this place is all—”
“You interested in my bank account balance?”
“No…seriously, God, no. My mom has crap-tons of money and she’s the unhappiest person I know so—”
“I haven’t touched my dad’s cash since I was eighteen.” His voice is so quiet, a borderline whisper.
“Why?” I rest my hand against his cheek. A muscle in his jaw tics, but then his body stills, all that lean energy harnessed like the hushed moment before a storm. This is intense. How can I feel such a powerful connection to an almost stranger? A surly guy who during a few, fleeting moments looked past my shields, my battle-worn armor, and saw…me? He leans closer and my body responds, the pull as natural as the tide to the moon.
A warning ripples in my belly. Anxiety stirs, uncoiling, sensing an opportunity to strike.
Wanting is scary, the kind of thing that might open Pandora’s box. If I allow one feeling to escape, what’s to stop the others from pushing their way free, the darker, uncontrollable kinds?
The idea of him—us—is so good, why spoil it with reality?
Bran’s move is sudden, faster
than the speed of fear. He grabs my wrist and plants a kiss on my palm. His lips heat my skin and the sweet torment drives back doubts. I could shut down and protect myself, or maybe there are times, little life moments, too big for thought.
“You always smell so good.” His voice drops an octave, slightly husky, but the tone is almost accusatory. The pulse in his neck quickens, and the hungry look on his face—I can’t even. I’m two seconds from jumping out of my skin. Currents fire through my body’s length. The storm comes closer, a glimpse of lightning.
“Fuck it.” His hands span my waist as he propels me into what must be his bedroom. His forehead presses to mine as he back kicks the door closed and spins me against the wall. Our next inhalation shares the same ragged note. When our bodies press flush, the fit’s perfect. I could stop, protect myself, or throw the chips to the gathering wind and see where they scatter.
“Fuck it,” he repeats, closing his eyes. His fingers flirt with the hem of my shirt, dip under to graze my bare stomach. “I told myself, I ordered myself, that I wasn’t going to do this—but here’s the funny thing, Talia.” His lips brush my eyelids, my cheek, hesitating a fraction of a second over my mouth. “I can’t stay away.”
His lips cover mine and we hold still, so still, breathe each other’s breath like the last two people left on Earth. The unshaven hair on his jaw prickles my skin, but I like it. I offer something between a gasp and moan before our kiss grows hot and desperate, a tangle of lips and teeth and tongue. I taste coffee and a hint of spearmint toothpaste. His hand covers my breast and my thighs shiver in response. He rumbles a few urgent words, but I can’t decipher anything other than my name.
“Please, don’t stop.” Any restraint on his part would shatter me into a million irreparable pieces.
“I’ve no intention.” He lifts me off my feet and I hook my legs around his hips, unwilling to sever even a fraction of contact. My hands sink into his hair; the texture’s impossibly soft, better than anything I’d imagined. I’m vaguely aware he’s walking us backward and then I’m eased onto a futon. I don’t have time to study his room. My vision’s filled with the sight of Bran staring at me as if he’s adrift and I’m some sort of anchor. Time slows down to a dreamlike trance.