The Nice Boxset

by Jasinda Wilder

  I can’t accurately say there’s a spark with Colton. No, it’s way, way beyond a spark. Just looking at him lights a fire. Touching him, being touched, even innocent touches, even his hand in mine creates an inferno.

  This? Touching him so intimately, so erotically? You could light a match from the waves of palpable heat radiating from me, flames of desire fanned hotter every second.

  I can’t stop stroking him. Up and back down, caressing his length, exploring his thickness through the swishy fabric of his shorts. He moves in time with me now, and he’s waking up. Moaning, writhing under my touch. I can’t stop now. I think he’s close.

  I press my thumb to his tip again and rub in circles, and I feel his body tense beneath mine. I glance up at his eyes, watch them flick open and waver in confusion, then stutter and blink as he comes. My gaze flits down to watch the white stream cover his belly.

  “The fuck?” His voice is muzzy and puzzled and slow.

  He’s awake, he’s released, but still thick. I slide my hand into his shorts and take him in my hand, and I bite my lip at the satiny hardness of him. His eyes meet mine, and I can tell he’s wondering if he’s awake, how he should feel, what to say.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I woke up touching you by accident. And then I couldn’t stop.”

  “Am I dreaming?” he asks, wary.

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  He looks down at himself, at the mess on his belly. “So you just…”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “While I was sleeping?”

  I nod again, and I can’t meet his eyes anymore. “Yeah. I don’t know—I’m sorry. I—I couldn’t help it. I knew I shouldn’t, but I just…” I trail off, unable to make a complete sentence. I suck in a deep breath and try again. “You were so hard and big, and it had been so long, and I—”

  “Nell,” he cuts in. “Shut up.”

  I shut up.

  “Look at me,” he orders. I force my eyes to his.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “I said shut up.”

  I wrinkle my face at his harsh tone, but keep my mouth closed and wait for him to continue.

  “I don’t even know what to say. I thought I was dreaming.” His eyes bore into me, blue and hot like a bunsen burner flame. “You want to know what I was dreaming about?”

  I nod.

  “Answer me. Out loud.”

  This is a new Colton. Bossy, direct. I’m not sure if I should be pissed at the way he’s barking orders, or turned on by it. I settle for both.

  “Yes, Colton. I want to know what you were dreaming about.” My tone is soft and submissive, but I know my eyes betray my ire.

  His face is impassive. “You. I was dreaming of you.” His eyes narrow. “I was dreaming of you doing what you apparently were actually doing.”

  “Was it a good dream?” I ask, daring. “Did you like that dream?” I trail my fingertip through the stickiness on his belly, eyeing him from beneath lowered lashes.

  He sucks in a sharp breath, watching my finger tracing patterns on his skin, and then his gaze flicks to me again. “It was a conflicted dream. I shouldn’t have wanted it to not be a dream. I shouldn’t have wanted it to be real. But I did.”

  I try to ignore the thunder of my pulse in my ears. “Why shouldn’t you?”

  He frowns. “Because…because of everything.”

  “Say it out loud. All of it.” I can be bossy, too.

  “Because you were in love with Kyle.”

  “He’s gone. It wouldn’t be cheating.” I swallow hard, because a part of me says that’s a very very valid reason why not. Because it would be. I would be cheating on him.

  “Your turn to say it all.”

  “Say what?”

  “What you’re thinking.”

  I begin tracing the kanji on his chest, the orange-yellow flames, the dragon’s eye. “I’m a liar. It would be cheating. It would be cheating on his memory. But…that’s bullshit.”

  His head sinks back, and he turns aside to stare at the wall. I watch his jaw clench and release, watch the fine black stubble on his tan skin shift.

  “How fucked up is that?” He says, barely audible.

  He gets out of bed, takes a couple steps across the hall and into the bathroom. I watch him wet a washcloth and clean off his stomach. He comes back and slips back into bed next to me, on his side, facing me.

  “That’s what I was thinking, too, though,” he says. “It’s bullshit, but I can’t shake the feeling. You and me would be…an affront to his memory. But that’s just bullshit, because he’s dead and he’d want both of us to be happy.”

  “Well that’s stupid, too. If he was alive, he’d want me.”

  “But he’s not.”

  “Is this an argument or a discussion?” I ask.

  He huffs a laugh. “I don’t even know.” He turns back to look at me. “What you just did? That changes shit.”

  “I know.” My words aren’t even a whisper. “Are you mad?”

  He bobbles his head back and forth. “Mad? No. Not mad. Confused. Not gonna lie, it was kinda shady. I couldn’t tell you I wanted it, or that I didn’t.”

  I choke. “I know. I know. I’m so sorry. I—I feel disgusted with myself.”

  “Don’t. Just don’t. I’m no better. You were asleep and I took your clothes off—”

  “You were making me comfortable,” I interrupt.

  He talks over me. “I wanted to see you again. I wanted to see your sweet, round ass. I touched your thigh.”

  “But you didn’t make me—you didn’t do what I did.”

  He rubs his face with his free hand.

  “Is this a competition? Which one of us is more of an asshole?” I ask.

  In my head, though, I’m stunned breathless by what he said. He wanted to see my “sweet, round ass.” I’ve always thought I had too much ass. It’s an insecurity. Common, I know, but unshakeable. I still run like a fiend, because it’s one of the few times I can be free of dreams and memories and nightmares and guilt. Then, when I’m drunk, and when I’m playing music. But no matter how I run, my ass is round and my breasts heavy.

  “I’d win that competition, hands down. No question,” Colton says. “You had a moment of weakness, or something. I’m an asshole all the time.”

  “You’re wrong.” I shift up his body and meet his eyes from a couple inches away. Kissing distance. “It wasn’t a moment of weakness. It was a lot of moments of desire. And you’re not an asshole.”

  “What do you want, Nell?”

  “I already asked you that question, remember?”

  “So neither of us knows what we want?” His eyes search mine, and his hand inscribes circles on the small of my back.

  “No. Yes. I know what I want, but I’m not sure if it’s right or wrong. I do know that how I went about getting it was wrong, though. So for that, I’m sorry.”

  “So you’re saying you should’ve done what you did, but while I’m awake?” His palm continues to circle, but moves lower.

  I arch my back subtly, but enough. He notices, and his eyes widen, his nostrils flare, his lips thin, his breathing goes deep.

  “Yes,” I say.

  I have to just own what I did, what I want. He was all too right when he said what I did changes things. I can’t go back now. I know how he feels in my hand. I know how his body feels beneath me, and I want more of it. I know how his hand feels on my ass. And I know he wants this as much as I do, and we’re both conflicted about it.

  I meet his eyes and hold his gaze as he explores downward. I bite my lip when he begins up the swell of my ass. When I got in bed, I’d stripped off my jeans, so all I was wearing was a tiny yellow thong. A triangle of silk over my core, strings over my hips, a string down my crack. I took off my bra, too, so I only had on a tiny T-shirt, a fitted thing, blue cotton with a pocket over the right breast, a glittery purple heart on the pocket.

  He follows the line of the waistband of my thong around
my hip, his eyes locked on mine, and he slowly and deliberately cups my left cheek. I search his eyes, and see my emotions reflected back at me: conflicted desire.

  “I forgive you,” he says, an ever-so-subtle smirking tilt to the side of his mouth. “After all, it was a really awesome dream.”

  He explores the line of the string between my cheeks. I’m holding my breath, and I can’t seem to catch it. He slides his palm up the other side, then back down, caressing my thigh, then the other. God. Oh, god. Now up my spine, up my bare back, under the shirt. His fingers, his palm on my skin, tracing fire.

  His fingers go between my arm and my rib, seeking access frontward. I shift my arm, slide my palm up his chest, hesitate at his shoulder, then do as I’ve wanted to do for so long, it seems, and scratch over the stubble on his jaw. This action gives him access, and he moves his hand around my ribs to brush the outside curve of my breast smashed against his chest.

  “What are we doing here, Nell?” he asks, his voice a raspy whisper.

  I shake my head and lift one shoulder. “I have no idea. But I like it.”

  “Me, too.” He pulls me closer, higher. I go with him, shifting so I’m entirely on my side, head propped up on one hand, leg slung over his thighs, free hand on his breastbone.

  Now I’m exposed. My shirt is hiked up so the undersides of my breasts peek beneath the hem. I silently dare him, encourage him with my stillness, my steady gaze on his too-blue eyes.

  Ohmigod. God. He takes the dare. Palm on my belly at first, I think he might go south, and I think he considers it, then moves up north to the hem of my shirt. I was already holding my breath, but my throat gets tighter, my lungs burn, my heart either stops beating or pounds wildly. I can’t decide which.

  Then his rough and gentle and huge hand cradles my breast beneath the shirt. I haven’t taken a breath in at least thirty seconds. Oh, god, oh, god, ohmigod. His hand feels so amazing. Scratchy, hard. My breasts are fairly big, C-cups, almost a D, but he can palm one easily. His palm scrapes my nipple, and now my breath blasts in, rushing through me and making me dizzy.

  “Colton…” I duck my head and bury my forehead on his shoulder.

  “Look at me, Nell,” he commands, softly but firmly. I do. His eyes are hooded and serious. “Turning point, right here. You don’t want this, you have to tell me now. Get up and go. This’ll all be forgotten. I’ll be your friend. But say so now. ’Cause any further, we’re in it all the way.”

  I gulp. I nod. I bite my lip and look away.

  “God, fuck me. Don’t do that,” he says, his voice ragged.

  I’m puzzled. “Do what?”

  “Bite your lip. It drives me wild. Bite your lip, and it’s over. Your mouth is mine.” His voice is so rough now, so raw and raspy it vibrates against me and sizzles deep in my core.

  “Good to know,” I whisper.

  He moves his hand away. “Decide now, Nell. All in, you’re mine, or we pretend this never happened.”

  “I’m yours?” My voice is soft and tremulous.

  “You asking? Or telling?”

  “I—Colton, I couldn’t forget…but we—” I cut myself off, knowing I’m an incoherent mess.

  Unconsciously, I bite my lip again, and Colton growls.

  “I fucking told you. Don’t…do…that. I can’t take it. My control is in shreds here, and you’re biting your lip again.”

  “Why does it make you so crazy?” I ask, playing for time.

  Time for what, I don’t know. I know what I want. But now…with Colton becoming the direct and commanding person again, I’m shy, unsure, insecure, afraid. I’m all over the damn place. Molesting him in his sleep, then unable to jump in when he makes it clear he wants me like I do him. I’m a lunatic, clearly.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s just a thing. You bite your lip, and I want to take that lip into my mouth and suck on it like a Popsicle. I want to lick your lips and bite them and kiss you until you’re fucking lost and gasping and puddled on the floor.”

  Well…shit. I want that.

  Nerves? Gone.

  I feel my heart doing this weird thing, swelling, hammering, stuttering, aching, and I know I’ve decided.

  I bite my lip, and it’s over.

  “Fuck. You’re crazy, baby.” His voice is a feral snarl, spoken through clenched teeth.

  I don’t even see him move. One second he’s over there, the next he’s slamming into me, lips crushing mine, and, true to his word, he takes my lower lip into his mouth and sucks on it, tongues it. I’m jarred and shocked by the sudden violence of his kiss, and then I melt as he sucks on my lip. And then I’m pure liquid beneath him, because he’s abruptly gentle, taking my face in his hands, gazing at me with our lips barely touching, and then he kisses me slowly and so thoroughly, so deeply, I’m just…lost. His mouth moves on mine, claims me, steals my heart with his lips, takes my body with his mouth.

  We’d kissed before, and it was—every time—the best kiss I’d ever had. My heart clenches when I realize this includes, by a landslide, every kiss Kyle ever gave me. There’s just no comparison. That hurts, that does. It hurts so sweet, so deep, so strange, I just don’t know what to do with it.

  This kiss…I’m gone. Gone. I know, in that moment, that I belong to him. It’s what he said: I’m his. How it happened, I don’t know. I really wish I did.

  “Last chance, Nelly-baby.” His voice is in my ear, not even a whisper, just breathed subvocalization that I feel on my ear. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

  I push him up and I see the hurt in his eyes before I can correct him. He starts to get off, but I catch his bicep and still him in place. I curl my fingers under the hem of my shirt and peel it off. Colton’s eyes go wide and he licks his lips.

  “I want this.” I say it as loud as I can, which is a breathless gasp at most. “I need this.”

  His eyes change then. They go feral.

  Oh, boy, here we go.

  “Take off your thong and spread your legs.”

  “Say ‘please.’” I find strength in the game. My terror, my vulnerability abates, and I’m thankful.

  He just stares at me. I don’t move to comply. He shakes his head and half-blinks in disbelief. And then he tugs on my thong, and it comes apart. He didn’t jerk it, he didn’t expend any effort. He just put two fingers around the string at my hip, two fingers of the other hand inside the triangle over my core, and tugged. Rip. Gone. I’m naked. That easy.

  “I liked that thong,” I protested.

  “Should’ve listened, then.” He slides his fingers down my belly, which clenches, and across my pudendum and down my tight-clamped thighs. “Now, spread your legs and feel free to scream. No one can hear.”

  “Wha—oh.” I don’t even have time to process my confusion before his tongue is doing something wicked to my clit.

  I spread my legs. Wide. I tuck my heels against my buttocks and let my knees fall apart. I’m shameless.

  “Yeah, Nelly. Just like that,” he breathes onto my folds. “God…damn. Sweet as sugar.”

  I blush at his words, and then I’ve got no headspace for anything but the screams ripping from my throat. Because god…I’ve never felt anything like this. Not ever. I writhe on the bed, arch up, buck in time to his tongue’s lapping. And then…oh, yeah, it gets better. He slides a finger inside me and curls it, and I just…lose it. I combust. I scream so loud it hurts my own ears, upon which I clamp my teeth together and groan past gritting jaws.

  “Trust me?” His voice is a surprise, and I’m so lost in sensation I don’t even understand his words.

  “Wha—what?”

  “Do. You. Trust me.” His fingers haven’t stopped their curling and swirling and exploring.

  “Your fingers are inside me, so yes.”

  “You might want to bite a pillow.”

  “Why…?” I start the question, but I never finish it. “Oh…shit!”

  He laughs, but it’s a pleased laugh. He’s got two fingers in my f
olds now, and a third is…oh, hell. I don’t even believe it, can’t even fathom or understand it, but it’s down there. Dirty and dark.

  I bite a pillow. My entire existence is a vortex of raging ecstasy. I simply cannot contain it. I’m coming apart at the seams, and I’m not even coming yet. Or maybe I am. Maybe this is what lies beyond the edge, and this is the first time I’ve ever really been here. I don’t know. I can’t keep it in. I scream into the pillow, and I sob, and I arch, and I buck. I find my fingers tangled in his hair, crushing him wantonly against me, even as I’m begging him.

  Begging him to what, I don’t know.

  “Colton…Colton…please…oh, god, ohgod, ohmigod…”

  See? Am I asking him to stop? To never ever stop, not even to breathe? I don’t know.

  It’s just a tiny intrusion, really, the very tip of his finger wiggling inside me in my forbidden place. But it’s earth-shattering.

  “What…what are you doing to me?” I ask.

  “Making you come. Fingering your tight, virgin asshole.” He returns his mouth to my folds and sucks my turgid nub into his mouth, and I scream, arch into him. “I’m getting you ready.”

  “Ready for what?” I want to know. God, do I want to know. There’s more?

  “Come, and I’ll show you.”

  “I thought I was coming?”

  He chuckles. “Oh, no.” He reaches up with his free hand, and suddenly he’s everywhere. Pinching my nipple and rolling it, and fingering me, curling and thrusting, licking, sucking… “Come. Now.”

  It’s a command, and I have no choice to obey. I explode into pieces, liquid and fire and screams and sobs. Actual sobs. Like, with tears.

  And then…then he crawls up my body like the predator he is. The stubble around his mouth is wet. From me. I blush, hard.

  Holy god, ohmigod, oh, shit. He’s so huge. All muscle and broad lines and hard edges, so big above me. His presence blocks out the world. All I see is tattoos and skin and sapphire eyes and sable hair. And then I glance down, and see his…his him. His cock.

  I like that word. I never use it. I started swearing openly after Kyle died. I just didn’t care anymore. But sex? Gone. No part of my life after that. I swore, I cursed, I drank, but I couldn’t fathom sex. I buried myself in classes at a community college and worked for Daddy in his office and saw no one, did nothing, was no one. I worked. I studied. I played music. I was the living dead, a guilt-ravaged shell.