by JD Hawkins
“I always thought you had a naughty side,” he murmurs, his other hand on my thigh now.
I pop his finger out of my mouth and press his hand against my cheek.
“Then why did it take you so long to find out?”
He looks at me with parted lips, his breath loud enough to hear. He reaches for the waist of my leggings and pulls them down, off my legs, and then brings that hard body between them. His body engulfs me, his face suspended above mine. Our breath mingles in the space between as we look at each other. It’s him. Wyatt. Close enough that I can see the flecks of yellow in his eyes, close enough that I can feel his heartbeat against my breasts.
“Maybe I didn’t know what I wanted until I had it right in front of me,” he whispers.
I reach down between my legs to caress his thick cock, to guide it against my swelling lust, gasping tenderly against his cheek as I feel his essence so achingly close to mine. I pull his head down toward me, and as he bites my neck I whisper in his ear.
“Then take it, Wyatt. Take me.”
His cock pushes inside my walls, still tight, as if only he can open me up, only he could ever get truly inside of me. I wrap my arm around his neck, and his tongue strokes against mine as his cock pushes further, so deep I almost can’t breathe, my body incapable of feeling so much, of having so many sensations come alive. Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he pauses.
“You okay?” he asks, a grin on his face.
“God, yes,” I moan. “Don’t stop.”
He pumps into me slowly at first, then faster, plumbing depths I never knew I had. I squeeze his body between my thighs, claw at his back, brush my face against his chest as I gasp for air. Half-frightened that I might never be able to separate from him, but not caring, not wanting anything else but to pull him deeper inside of me. I’m not totally inexperienced, but nothing has ever felt like this before. With Wyatt, it’s almost like he knows exactly what I need, exactly which buttons to push.
“So…fucking…good,” I murmur.
I grab his ass so I can meet him thrust for thrust, finding our rhythm, and he pulls my earlobe with his teeth until I cry out in pleasure and pain. He eases up and fucks me slowly, beautifully. Long, hard strokes, his powerful body pressing against me, cocooning me in those muscles. Chest against chest, face against face, hips against hips—sharing every tremble and shudder, feeling each other’s pleasure as much as our own. Until our breathing quickens, until I’m clawing at the muscles of his ass, until his mouth presses against the side of my neck again, biting and licking hungrily.
Suddenly Wyatt pushes himself back up, grips my hair in his hand, and stares right at me as he fucks me, turning me on even more—something primal in his eyes, something imploring in mine as I watch him get off. I hook my ankles behind his back and he grabs my waist now, biceps and forearm muscles taut and straining. The slow pumps of his cock turn into probing slams, sending shockwaves of pleasure through me. I throw my arms over my head, back over the couch’s armrest to steady myself, and my rhythmic moans turn into desperate, drawn-out cries. I’m so close it’s all I can do not to scream.
My breasts shake to the beat of his cock, my breath catching in my throat with each pulse of ecstasy. I lose control of myself, lose my sense of place and time. In the few moments I grasp some sense of reality, manage to open my eyes and see him, I remember that it’s Wyatt, that this is really happening, and it sends the chaotic bliss coursing once more through my nervous system.
I cling to the couch even harder, feeling myself start to break apart, Wyatt’s cock so deep inside of me that something has to give, his face so beautiful I can’t bear it any longer.
When he says my name, I know I’m done.
“Melina.”
I let out a long, low shuddering moan as I shatter into a million pieces. The tension inside of me melting instantly, pouring out of me into the hotness at my center. Pussy tight around Wyatt’s cock, legs tight around his waist, I squeeze him like I’ll never let go, and feel the heat of his own release inside of me.
I go dizzy, feeling so faint I need to close my eyes for a minute before I can do anything but bask. Wyatt strokes my hair slowly, the rough-but-cool touch of his hands bringing me back to life, and when I open my eyes I see him lying there beside me.
Suddenly the haze clears and I feel my stomach sink like a stone. The full magnitude of what just happened forming like a beast on the horizon.
“Oh god…I can’t believe we just…” I mumble.
“Yeah…” Wyatt replies with a lazy grin. “We did.”
The anxiety comes fast, flooding into that empty space left by orgasm.
Wyatt. My childhood crush. A friend I share with our families, our entire group. My new, albeit temporary, boss. As amazing as it felt in the moment, the myriad ways in which this was a horrible idea come out from wherever they were hiding an hour ago. How could I be so reckless?
And how the hell are we going to keep this a secret?
5
Melina
“Put that camera down and give us a hand!” Winnie calls as she grabs a couple more paint cans from the back of the car.
I oblige, but only after I snap a few more shots of Becca and Winnie hard at work. The morning sun warming their limbs and their relaxed expressions too much for me to resist.
We’re all in clothes we don’t mind getting splattered with paint. For Winnie, that’s an old pair of workout leggings and a faded t-shirt; for Becca, that’s a one-piece pair of coveralls she bought specifically for the occasion—for me, it’s a pair of old dungarees that I’m kind of hoping will look cool with a few paint stains.
I grab the last of the brushes, trays, and plastic sheets from the car and follow the others into Becca’s apartment. It’s pretty lavish, an elegant-looking and exquisitely-built glass and brick building set in a corner of Atwater Village with a gorgeous view of the Verdugo Mountains. It’s about as minimalist inside as you’d expect from someone like Becca, all open spaces and understated (but insanely expensive) pieces of furniture and art. None of us are complaining though, since it’ll make the re-painting a hell of a lot easier.
As sparse as Becca liked to live, however, it wasn’t always this empty. Up until a week ago her girlfriend lived here as well. Ursula was a freelance writer, a.k.a. more or less unemployed—though that was never a problem, since Becca made more than enough from her job as a CPA for both of them to live well—and spent most of her time keeping up the apartment, running errands, and planning these amazing fancy dinner parties while Becca was at work. They’d been together for nearly three years, and they made a pretty great couple. Ursula’s writing had even started getting published in literary magazines recently, and people were starting to recognize her name. All of us presumed it was going to last forever.
So it came as a real shock when Becca announced they were breaking up matter-of-factly, and then didn’t really tell anyone why. Becca’s never been one to talk about her feelings, and I wouldn’t be surprised if even Winnie didn’t know. Still, all of us care enough about her to not need a reason. As soon as she told us they’d split, Winnie suggested (then insisted on) repainting her apartment and rearranging all the furniture to help clear out some of the old energy, and I didn’t need any convincing to lend a helping hand.
“Let’s move this bookcase away from the wall,” I tell Winnie, who scampers over to help.
“Christ this is heavy,” she groans as we slowly slide it closer to the books and chairs in the middle of the room.
“It’s real mahogany,” I manage to grunt out.
“It’s a real pain in the ass,” Winnie replies.
We finally get it there with a final shove and I grab the plastic sheets to cover the stuff as Winnie massages her lower back.
“You should have got Aiden here to help us,” I huff.
“No thanks,” Winnie says. “I prefer aching muscles to a splitting headache.”
We laugh and then Winnie grabs the
other end of the plastic sheet as we weight the corners down with a pair of heavy, decorative bookends.
“Are you sure about pastel red?” she calls out to wherever Becca might be. “It’s a bit of an angry color, don’t you think?”
“It’s coral!” I say. “Besides, we can always mix it lighter—though it might look a bit pinkish.”
“I’d like a nice pink, myself,” Winnie says, then raises her voice again. “What do you think, Becca?”
We wait for a response, then look at each other in confusion.
“Becca?” I call out.
When an answer still doesn’t come we both move through the apartment, through the kitchen and hallway, until we see Becca in her bedroom’s corner work nook. Her back’s to the door, and she’s hunched over her desk.
“Becca?” I repeat, moving up beside her.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice barely a whisper.
She turns to us, sniffling, swiping at her eyes a little.
“You ok?” Winnie asks, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“Yeah,” Becca repeats, smiling through slightly-puffier-than-normal cheeks.
I notice the bracelet on her desk—unmistakably Ursula’s, all big green beads and knotted hemp. I look at Winnie and flick my eyes toward it, and when she sees it she nods at me.
“You know,” Winnie says, “if you’re not up for this we could just sit and talk, have a girl’s day in. Order pizza, put some music on…”
“It’s alright,” Becca says, smiling a little at the support. “I’m fine. Or I will be. I really want to get this done, anyway. Every single thing in the apartment reminds me of her.”
“Well,” Winnie says, as we move back to the living room, “you’ll have to decide on this red still.”
“What do you think, Meli?” Becca asks me. “You’re the artist, after all. I wanted something completely different. Something alive and…happy.”
“Hmm,” I say, looking around at the mostly black and white room. “Why don’t we try painting just one accent wall first. Over here, on this wall where the most light hits. And then the others can get a fresh coat of antique white.”
I don’t mention how empty the place looks now without Ursula’s woven macrame hangings, vintange botanical prints, and the house plants she’d placed on every available surface—but there’s a definite echo in the room.
“Sounds like a plan,” Winnie says, aggressively chipper. “I’m still gonna order a pizza and put some music on though.”
For the next hour, the three of us prime and paint to the sound of an eighties playlist on Winnie’s phone. By the time the pizza comes I’ve heard more Gloria Estefan, Talking Heads, and Madonna songs than I had in all my life previously. My sister calls me into the kitchen to help bring out plates and napkins, and we all pile onto the couch for a break.
When Winnie casually suggests I let Becca choose some of my photography prints for her newly-bare walls, I don’t even bother with my usual self-conscious excuses. Instead I pull up my Dropbox account and hand my phone over so Becca can look through my photo files while she’s working her way through her second slice of pizza. When she finds a few that she likes, I e-mail the files to an Etsy shop that will print them onto canvas and ship them directly to her place so she can hang them up right away. Becca’s even smiling as she tells Winnie where she plans to put them, and I flash my sister a secret thumbs-up.
After we’ve eaten through a few slices, paint splattered on our clothes, the air vibrating with the sound of 808s and synths, we’re all in a better mood, and even Becca seems to finally want to open up a little.
“So,” Winnie says, a glint in her eye as we sit crosslegged among the paint cans and pizza boxes—still chewing, with a white paint mark on her cheek that Becca and I silently agree not to tell her about—“what do you girls make of the new, improved Wyatt?”
Suddenly my smile feels a lot heavier, but I make an effort to keep it.
“Why?” Becca says. “Are you finally done dating every bachelor in L.A.? Ready to finally settle down with him?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
Winnie rolls her eyes, grabs a nearby brush, and tries to playfully flick paint at her, but it only splashes the drop cloth.
“I am not interested in Wyatt like that,” she insists. “I just think, you know, he’s pretty hot now. He really grew into himself, don’t you think? I mean he was always cute, but now? Damn.”
Becca looks at me and winks. “Sounds pretty interested to me, don’t you think, Melina?”
I force myself to laugh a little, praying the truth of what I did with Wyatt last night isn’t somehow written all over my face.
Somehow I manage to say, “Yeah. The lady doth protest too much.”
“Come on,” Winnie says, looking at me too now, “back me up, Meli—Wyatt’s hot, right? Like, surprisingly so. Sure, he was always good-looking, in that generic, J. Crew catalog kinda way, but now he just looks…ridiculous. His butt is just incredible—like, you could hammer steel off it. Am I wrong?”
I feel like her eyes are chains, making me go tense.
“Um. Yeah, whatever you say,” I manage. My cheeks are burning, my hands tingling with the memory of that ass in my grip.
Becca prods my sister, “So why not give it another shot? Everyone thinks you and Wyatt would make an awesome couple.” Becca shoots me a look, as if to tell me to back her up. I nod meekly, immediately thinking of that prom photo hanging in the Buchanans’ front hall with a pang of sadness that I try to hide. “Everyone loved it when you two dated in high school. And it’s not like you guys are fifteen and inexperienced anymore. Maybe he’s ready for round two.”
“Ugh,” Winnie says, rolling her eyes but smiling good-naturedly. “Why does everyone always bring that up? We were kids. We didn’t even know what dating was back then. And I don’t think two months of holding hands in between classes and sharing the same bucket of popcorn at the movies counts as actual dating. We kissed once and it was about as hot as kissing my own hand.”
“Well you’ve both had a lot of practice since then,” Becca says. “And he sure looks like he knows what he’s doing now. Don’t you think you’ve been single long enough? What’s it been this time, a whole week?”
Winnie grabs the brush and tries to flick paint again, failing once more, though Becca shields her face and laughs.
“I think you have more fun flicking through Tinder than you do going on actual dates,” I say.
“There are a lot of left swipes in this city,” Winnie agrees. “I’ll tell you this: If Wyatt uses it, he’d kill it.”
“You think he’s dating?” Becca asks. “Maybe we should set him up with someone before the moms take over and try to marry him off to some boring goody-two-shoes.”
“Well he is single,” Winnie replies. “And that’s actually not a bad idea.” She reaches for her phone and starts to tap the screen. “I’m gonna have a look…hmm…”
I feel a sudden urge to do something, to stop them. If either of them knew that Wyatt and I had slept together it would blow their minds—it still blows mine. I haven’t even had time to really figure it out for myself, let alone think about if it might happen again. If Winnie sets him up with another girl, though—I’ll never even know if it was a possibility.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound as cool as possible, “I’m not sure Wyatt would want to go on a blind date. He might even be pissed that you guys tried to set him up—”
“Got it!” Winnie says, picking a name from her contacts. “Do you remember my friend Simone, the French girl?”
“From the gig we went to with Cody?” Becca asks. “Oh yeah! She’s so gorgeous. And sweet, too. Wyatt would love her.”
“I’m gonna call her now,” Winnie says eagerly.
“Wait, wait!” I say, suddenly embarrassed when they stop to shoot confused looks at me. “You sure this is a good idea? I mean, Wyatt’s a lady’s man—right? It’s not like he’s even interested in anything serious
or long-term.”
“Precisely,” Becca says. “He needs a girl to tie him down already.”
“Simone would be perfect,” Winnie adds.
“Um…Simone with the curly hair, you mean?” I interrupt quickly again.
“Yeah,” Winnie says, still looking confused.
“Oh…I think I saw on Instagram that she was dating someone,” I say, hoping I sound convincing, but not even really convincing myself.
“You sure?” Winnie says. “I talked to her just last week and she didn’t say anything about it.”
“Well, let’s find out,” Becca says, as my sister pushes a button and puts the phone to her ear.
I panic, immediately flooded with thoughts of me and Wyatt on my couch. If I was being rational, I wouldn’t worry about a dumb blind date. I’d realize that whatever happened with Wyatt and me was just an accident that’ll probably never happen again. But this is all happening too fast to be rational, too sudden to be sensible. Suddenly I feel queasy, and turn to run from the room.
“Oh shit!” I say, as the paint can next to my foot tips over, sending coral paint spilling across the floor.
“Whoa!” Becca says, hurriedly jumping up as I pick up the can. “Winnie! Grab the paper towels from the kitchen table! And get some water!”
“How the hell did that happen?” Winnie says, already tossing the phone aside and running to the kitchen.
“Sorry guys,” I say, my hands red with paint as I try to stop it from spreading, “I didn’t see it was right next to me.”
“You’re such a klutz,” Winnie says, laughing as she tosses me a wad of wet paper towels and gets the paint thinner. “You’re lucky Becca has bamboo floors instead of carpet.”
“Sorry…sorry…” I repeat as we wipe the paint up, feeling both guilty and relieved at the same time.
We spend about ten minutes cleaning the whole mess up—enough time for them to forget what we were talking about. There’s no more mention of Wyatt and blind dates and Simone. Eventually, we get back to the actual painting, and I realize that I just totally panicked at the idea of Wyatt dating someone else. As if one drunken fumble on my couch actually signifies anything, as if I might actually be thinking of Wyatt and I turning into something more than a one-night stand.
