by Lucy Eden
Tim showed me what true friendship was. Which made the fact that I secretly fantasized about his sister awkward. For me at least. I never told him how her visit was the catalyst for the upset in my life. How I wanted to thank her for it. How I wish I had gotten the chance to wake up with her the next morning.
Would her leg have rested across my stomach like it does now?
In the way her limb had laid claim to me during the night, my hand also decided to settle on her calf. Unconsciously holding her in place.
Olive Buchanan clearly still holds sway over me. Coming here was a mistake.
Trying not to wake her, I slide out of the bed, feeling a combination of triumph and disappointment when I’m able to complete the maneuver without my hardness brushing her again.
Instead of using my time in the bathroom to give my dick what it wants, I turn on the shower, twisting only the cold nozzle. Touching myself to thoughts of Olive would be giving my brain permission to keep fantasizing about her.
I need an Olive exorcism.
The best I can do is a freezing shock to my system, then a long run along the beach.
The sun shades the morning sky with vivid oranges and pinks, and I try to focus on those colors rather than the black of a certain woman’s hair, and the cinnamon tint of her skin.
“Sleep well?” Tim asks from his spot beside the coffee maker when I get back to the house.
“Yeah.” Too well.
The Buchanans don’t have any kind of formal breakfast, everyone wandering out of their bedrooms at different times to scrounge through the kitchen. Even three-year-old Mason grabs himself an apple juice from the fridge while his mom pours the two of them bowls of cereal.
After scrambling myself some eggs and successfully not burning my toast, I settle at a table in the corner with my laptop.
I’m immersed in editing a client’s video interview for their documentary, when there’s a subtle shift in the air of the room. Without moving my head, I glance to the side and spot a shapely figure clad only in a bathing suit, reaching for a bowl on the top shelf of a cabinet.
Olive is awake.
I can’t avert my eyes fast enough. The swimwear isn’t even that provocative. The practical cut looks like something a lifeguard might wear. But it reveals more of her body than I ever expected to see.
Less than my inappropriate fantasies hoped for, though.
Silently cursing at myself, I force my focus back to the half-edited video. But my concentration is broken a minute later when the Olive settles across the table from me.
For a few minutes, she loudly eats her cereal, staring at me while I try to ignore her.
I’m being rude in the pursuit of self-preservation. But if I thought my silence would bore her and send her away, I was naive.
With a clatter, she sets her empty bowl down on the table.
“What are you doing, Theodore Phillips?”
The use of my full name is strange enough to have me sliding off my headphones and meeting her eyes. Bad idea. Her noir gaze is easy to get lost in.
“Editing a video.”
“You’re working?”
I nod.
Olive sighs dramatically, leaning toward me across the table. The move puts her cleavage on distracting display. “Do I need to define the word vacation for you?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, but it’s not enough to fight off my smile.
Olive grins back at me. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I’m going down to the beach. You have a half hour to finish up whatever you’re working on and join me.”
“What happens if I take longer?”
The woman stands and circles the table, coming to a stop beside me. Suddenly, I realize we’re alone, the other Buchanans having wandered off.
The tangle of fingers in my hair focuses my entire attention back on Olive. She tugs on the strands, tilting my head back until we’re staring at each other.
“Thirty minutes, Theo. Or else I’m coming up here, dripping wet”—
I’m glad my lap is hidden by the table so she doesn’t see how rock hard I am.
—“and I will drench your laptop in salt water.”
“That’s cruel.” My voice rasps, and I’m not sure if I’m talking about her threat against my computer, or the erotic way she’s delivering said threat.
“I take self-care seriously. See you in a bit.” Then, so quick I almost doubt it happened, she presses her soft lips against my forehead.
In the next moment she’s across the room, rinsing her bowl in the sink, while I’m a maelstrom of lust and need.
Olive doesn’t linger, grabbing a beach towel and sun glasses before disappearing down the stairs. Just as she moves out of sight, I hear her final warning.
“Countdown begins now!”
WEDNESDAY
Before the Buchanan family vacation, I’ve never understood the appeal of a sex dungeon.
Who wants to get tortured in the name of sexual pleasure?
But that’s basically what these past couple days have been. Only, without release at the end.
Yesterday, I made it to the beach before Olive fulfilled her threat. When I dropped my folding chair next to Tim’s, I glanced at the ocean just in time to watch his sister walking out of the water.
Every inch of her skin glistened. Wet hair stuck to the curves of her neck and top of her chest.
Pure, visual, torment.
As she crossed the sand toward me, or more accurately toward her family, I couldn’t help staring. And I wondered how I ever deluded myself into thinking spending more time with her would cure me of this wanting.
The rest of the day involved me making regular trips into the waves to cool down the response below my waist. The frequency was a consequence not only of Olive’s almost bare body, but also the sound of her laughter, and the eager way she related stories of her work in an ER in Chicago. Olive’s intelligence turned me on just as much as her generous ass did.
As the sun sank below the horizon, Melony cooked burgers on a grill in the driveway as the rest of us played cornhole and drank Mrs. Buchanan’s different cocktail experiments. Eventually, my worries faded to the back of my mind. I existed in a hazy cloud of booze-induced happiness.
Until bedtime. Jezebel once again staked her claim, and Olive made the same offer with a smirk and a pat of her mattress. I gave in even easier than the first night.
That morning I woke, finding myself in painful arousal and my years-long crush half straddling me in her unconsciousness.
And just like the previous morning, I slunk out for an icy shower and muscle-exhausting run.
Not sure how much longer I’d be able to hide my dick’s reaction to her teasing and playful threats, I made sure not to pull out my laptop. Instead, I walked down to the beach with Tim and Caroline before Olive even made it upstairs.
She joined us an hour later, and the delicious torture of her presence recommenced.
Eventually, I had to escape, worried I’d do something stupid like confess my obsession in front of her entire family. While she went for a quick dive in the waves, I returned to the house and borrowed a bike. As I rode for miles, cicadas sang a constant song, while the sun beat down on my shoulders, the heat of it almost unbearable.
And as I pedal back up the driveway, I realize that all the excursion did was fill me with regret.
The hours I spent avoiding Olive are ones I’ll never get back.
At the end of the week, we’ll go our separate ways. Another six years might pass before I get to see her again. Maybe even longer.
My chest tightens, and I find myself jogging up the outer stairs, hoping that the setting sun means she’ll be back at the house.
I’m in luck. Pulling open the sliding glass door, I spot her in the dining area with Tim’s fiancée.
“What do you think?” Olive asks.
“I don’t know. Can’t you use any table?” Caroline responds.
Olive’s finger taps against her lip as she ponde
rs whatever the two women are discussing. Her eyes land on me, and she gives a little wave. “Come here, Theodore. I need your opinion.”
No one calls me Theodore other than Olive. She doesn’t even use it consistently, but I think I’m picking up on her pattern. The youngest Buchanan likes to be overly formal when she’s poking fun at someone. Which is why the moment she calls her brother ‘Timothy’ we can all expect a round of verbal sparring.
Whatever joke I’m about to be the butt of, I don’t even try to avoid. She beckons me, I come. Running away didn’t work. Maybe I should stop fighting so hard and just let myself absorb the happiness of being around her.
It’s worth a try.
“Yes, Oliviadore?” I respond, reaching her side.
She chokes on the next word she was about to speak, clearly thrown off by the nickname. Then I’m hit with a grin so joyful I have to stifle a groan.
This is what I get for playing along with her. More fuel for my pining.
Recovering from her surprise, the tempting woman mutes her smile and speaks in an even more formal tone. “I was just hoping to get your opinion on this table, Theodorenessa.”
Gauntlet thrown.
I pick it up.
“What about the table, Oliviadorella?”
Melony comes in from the porch with her son, joining Caroline where she stands, watching our back-and-forth with wide eyes.
Teeth pinch Olive’s bottom lip as she clears her throat. Then, “I was hoping to put the championship team back together and have a beer pong tournament tonight. Do you think the dining room table will serve, Theodorenessavain?”
Good one.
Making as if I’m examining the surface, I lean down, eye level with the table top, fighting as hard as I can against laughing. “I’m not sure it’ll count as an official tournament, with these dimensions so far out of regulation. But it’ll have to do …” I let my sentence trail off.
Just as she begins to raise her fist in victory, I finish.
“Oliviadorellamare.”
“Oh no,” Melony whispers, her voice low with mock horror as she clutches her young son against her chest. “Tim! Come quick! Olive broke your friend!”
“What did she do?” Tim asks as he climbs the stairs into the room, Cooper on his heels.
Even with his appearance, I can’t wipe away my goofy grin.
“Nothing!” Olive declares. “My partner and I were just strategizing our beer pong reunion. That is, if any of you have the balls to go against us.” She bumps her shoulder against mine and wags her eyebrows. “The ping pong balls, that is.”
“I’ve got the biggest ping pong balls y’all’ve ever seen!” Mrs. Buchanan announces, strolling into the kitchen from her bedroom and toasting the room with her half-empty glass of sangria. The Buchanan parents are the only ones with a bedroom on the top floor.
The literal top of the hierarchy.
“Maybe you don’t want to brag about that, dear.” Mr. Buchanan adds, following close behind his wife.
The entire room dissolves into laughter.
That evening, Diana takes charge of dinner, making tacos for the lot of us. After food, once Mason is tucked into bed, the tournament begins.
Six years may have passed, but neither Olive nor I have lost our skills. A big motivator for me is the enthusiastic hug I receive as a reward for every cup made. At 1 AM, Melony and Diana have been knocked out and have retired to bed. Mrs. Buchanan has nodded off on the couch while Mr. Buchanan watches the final round. Olive and I have two cups remaining, but a single red solo stands in front of Tim and Caroline.
“You got this babe,” Tim whispers to his fiancée as she aims. An arc of her arm and the ball lands pretty in our front cup. My friend lets out a whoop, sets himself up, aims, then throws a rim shot.
Curses pour from his mouth as his sister cackles evilly beside me.
“Let’s put them out of their misery.” Olive steps up to the edge of the table. Everyone still awake watches with rapt attention as she lets her ball fly. There’s the perfect plop of plastic against beer. She made it.
But we can’t celebrate yet.
“Okay, Theo. You got this,” her whispers of encouragement tickle over my spine.
What will she do if I make this cup?
Only one way to find out.
Line it up. Let it fly. Watch my best friend’s face fall as he realizes he lost to his obnoxious sister.
“You beautiful man!” Olive flings her arms around my neck, pressing a smacking kiss to my cheek. I take advantage of her affection, gripping her waist and holding her against me for one brief, glorious moment.
Then I let her slide away.
Tim and Olive throw good natured barbs at each other as they clean up the cups. Mr. Buchanan scoops up his wife, carrying her to bed. Caroline and I head down the stairs, she turning off at the second floor, and me continuing on to the first.
The victory, small as it was, has adrenaline trickling through my veins.
Will Olive still be riding the high of it when she comes to bed?
Could the excitement lead somewhere when we’re lying next to each other?
All fantasies are side-railed when I reach the bedroom.
Jezebel is there.
But she’s not in her bed.
The obstinate cat has chosen to curl up on the windowsill, leaving the twin bed free and clear for the guy on the bottom of the hierarchy.
Damn it. I can’t lose this.
I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone.
“Here, kitty. Come on. Look at this cozy bed.” My hand pats the soft blanket as I plead with the cat.
The only acknowledgement I get is a slow blink.
Olive will be down here any second. Desperation bleeds into my whisper. “Work with me, Jezebel. Don’t you want an entire bed to yourself? Doesn’t that sound better than a stupid windowsill?”
Not even a muscle twitch.
Footsteps sound on the staircase, and I see my chance to feel Olive’s skin against mine slipping away.
And that’s how I find myself picking up a demon animal, tossing it onto the bed and shoving my hands into my pockets a second before Olive strolls into the room. A delayed yowl of affront rumbles from the one-eyed cat as she glares at me.
“Did you try to move her again?” Olive asks while rummaging around in her suitcase.
I keep my expression innocent. “That’s her bed. I know when I’m beat.”
THURSDAY
In the dream we touch each other.
The scene my mind creates is more than I’ve ever had with Olive, but still not enough. Everything is a hazy mixture of hands and lips and tongues. There’s an edge of pleasure, a precipice I balance on. And just when I’m sure I’m about to dive off the cliff—
I wake up.
Clenched teeth cage the curses I want to mutter at finding myself in the same position as the last two nights.
Hard with a perfect, oblivious woman’s leg slung over my hips.
And so, the torture continues.
I’m about to make the same retreat I have every morning when I catch sight of the alarm clock on the bedside table.
3:34 a.m.
Shit.
Too early to be a reasonable time to get up and start the day. Somehow, I have to find a way to fall back asleep. And so I lie still, trying to relax my mind.
In the darkness, my body is intensely aware of the woman sprawled next to me.
My hand rests on her leg, having found the position while I slept. There’s a slight prickle against my palm, as if she’s gone a day or so without shaving. The texture is somehow more erotic than smooth skin.
She’s real.
Yet still unreachable.
Olive’s pillow must not be too far from my shoulder because an occasional puff of her warm breath teases me. There’s also a slight pressure against my upper arm. Her hand must have found its way to my side of the bed while she slept.
Maybe I should have
claimed my bed when the cat abandoned it. Is this almost-intimacy worth the painful knowledge that it isn’t real?
A soft touch on my arm has my spine going rigid. My focus hones in upon that one inch of skin, waiting to see if I imagined the sensation.
Then, a second later, it comes again. A light stroke. A small tease of a finger trailing down my bicep.
Is she awake?
Worried I’m deluding myself in the pursuit of my secret longing, I perform my own test. Where my thumb rests on her calf, I draw a simple, yet purposeful circle.
The response is another path drawn with her finger, then a full palm cupping my shoulder.
Olive is awake.
And she’s touching me.
I don’t know what this means. Logically, the best thing to do is ask. But I’m suddenly terrified that if I speak a word, whatever spell we’re under will break.
This is some kind of chance, and I don’t want to lose it.
So I let my hands speak for me. My grip drags up her calf, pausing to massage the soft skin behind her knee.
Was that a gasp?
The breaths teasing over my skin seem to grow faster.
Then the body at my side shifts. Not away, as I feared. But closer.
A heavy, toned thigh comes to rest on my hips, brushing the top of my erection. Now I’m the one gasping.
Heat builds where our bodies press together, and I can imagine the edges of her sleep shorts riding up. If the lights were on, I might see the rounded curve of her ass. Maybe the material would shift enough for me to glimpse whatever scrap of cotton covers the center of her.
Without sight, all that’s left to me is touch.
Taking her move toward me as further invitation, my hand ventures the rest of the way up her leg. Just as I discover where skin and fabric meet, there’s a distinct rock of hips. A demand.
Could she want this as much as I do?
Probably not as much, but I’ll take what she’s willing to give.
Pushing until I find elastic, I use my index finger to follow the path leading in between her legs. The material there is damp. When I press against it, I’m rewarded with another rocking of her hips.