Act Your Age, Eve Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  “Oh my God,” she said, her eyes wide and her hands pressed to her cheeks. He imagined those cheeks were hot and blushing under her palms, and then he imagined a similar heat flushing her entire body as she lay back on this bed—this fucking bed—and eased off her underwear and rubbed the head of this toy over her pussy. Would she do it under the covers or on top? Would she slick this big thing up first? With lube, or with her mouth?

  “Jacob,” she practically shrieked, “say something.”

  He dragged his gaze away from the toy and back to her. “Does it vibrate?”

  “What? I think I’ve broken you. You’re broken. Admit it.” She sounded genuinely worried. Looked it, too. She’d sunk her teeth into the plump pillow of her lower lip, and Jacob, still drowning beneath the murky waters of sudden lust, wanted to know if she bit her lip just like that when she came.

  “I am so sorry,” she was saying. “I have no idea how I—um, I completely forgot to—Jacob, you should probably put that down.” But her voice wavered on the last word, her chest rising and falling with each breath.

  He met her gaze. Arched an eyebrow. Asked calmly, “Why?” And was gratified when she sucked on that bottom lip rather than answering.

  He didn’t want to let this thing go. He couldn’t, not right now. He was . . . studying it. Every plastic ridge and vein. Did she feel that, when it was inside her? Did she care about the finer details, or was she just chasing the thick stretch, the snug fullness a toy like this must give? And she’d never told him if it vibrated or not. He hadn’t heard anything through their shared wall—but God only knew when she’d been using it.

  Christ, what if she’d been using it next fucking door while he’d been staring at the ceiling, determinedly thinking of anything but Eve’s arse in her jeans and Eve’s hands as she sliced tomatoes and Eve’s mouth, smiling at him? He’d spent half of last night wide awake, playing fucking sudoku, trying to ignore the fact that it was her presence keeping him on the edge. And this whole time she’d been over here with this. He hadn’t even stroked himself in the shower, this last week, because he’d known deep down inside he’d think of her.

  Maybe that’s why the voice of reason that usually controlled his actions was growing softer and softer, violently muffled by all his want. Maybe this was exactly what people meant when they used the phrase Tipped over the edge.

  “You . . . don’t want to touch that,” Eve managed. She sounded like she was reassuring herself, reciting the rules of Usual Jacob in the face of a Jacob who wasn’t behaving usually at all. “You should’ve dropped it five minutes ago. You—you—it’s a foreign object and you don’t know where it’s been.”

  “I know where it’s been,” he said, and his voice came out . . . different. Like the smoke and desire in his head was ripping through his throat, too, coloring every word. He thought about exactly where this toy had been and felt his cock press stiff and fat against the zipper of his jeans, the slight bite of pain the only thing bringing him back to his senses. Back to a point resembling cool control. He had to retain control, because only then could he push delicately at Eve’s embarrassment.

  He was fascinated by it—just as surely as he was fascinated by the toy she’d been fucking. Not half an hour ago this woman had been nattering about penises and pussies with laughter in her voice; she made dick jokes every time she cooked sausages; she came out with That’s what she said more often than a fifteen-year-old boy. Yet now she covered her eyes with her hands, practically vibrating with a discomfort that gleamed like ripe fruit in the sun.

  “You’re blushing,” he said.

  She peeked at him through her fingers, those cautious dark eyes sending a thrill over his skin. “You are holding my dildo, Jacob.”

  “So you admit it’s yours.”

  “No, it’s yours. You must have lost it on the sofa months ago.” But the joke lacked her usual humor, the words softening until they were just gasps with shape. He wondered if she was thinking of him lying here with something just like this, fucking himself. He hoped she was, even if that seemed anatomically unlikely. What did he know about the sexual capabilities of his arse, anyway? Maybe it was perfectly possible.

  Maybe she was imagining all the ways it could be perfectly possible.

  Or maybe she was so mortified right now because Jacob was utterly alone in his illicit feelings and making a complete fool of himself.

  Now, wasn’t that possibility a bucket of ice water?

  Abruptly, Jacob put the toy down on a side table.

  Eve released a sigh of relief and flopped back on the bed, flinging an arm over her eyes.

  “I apologize,” he said.

  “No,” she murmured. “No, it’s . . .” and then she trailed off. God only knew what that meant.

  If he had an ounce of sense or self-respect, this would be a great moment to de-escalate the situation. But he must have lost those somewhere down the line, because instead of changing the subject—or, you know, throwing himself out of the window—Jacob simply looked at her. Looked, and let himself notice the soft plumpness of her arms, the dark and delicate lines etched into her palms. The fat curve of her breasts beneath her T-shirt. The hem had ridden up a little and he could see the strip of skin just above her leggings. He could see her bare hips. He could see the beginnings of a scar on her right side—appendectomy, it looked like. He’d seen that kind of scar before.

  But it felt like he’d never seen Eve. Or rather, like he’d been working incredibly hard to keep his eyes closed, and now he was exhausted so his eyes were wide open. Only, she was hiding, which suggested she did not want to be seen.

  Jacob was gathering the frayed edges of his control when she peeked out at him and asked, “Are you going to make fun of me for the next thousand centuries?”

  “You think I’m going to make fun of you,” he said. Thank God his voice was strained enough that the words came out flat and harsh, instead of dripping with inappropriate desire and—and hope. Because Eve was gloriously unselfconscious about sex, and she certainly didn’t give a damn for his opinions—not usually, anyway. Only when it mattered. So why would this matter?

  Some people talked about their feelings sneaking up on them, but Jacob’s feelings tended to smack him over the head with a baseball bat. Right now he was seeing stars and fighting a second concussion, because he’d just learned something about himself: he didn’t really want to be Eve’s friend.

  No; that was wrong. He did. He definitely did. He wanted to be Eve’s friend, plus . . .

  God save him, he should not investigate that plus.

  But when she muttered, “I know you’re going to make fun of me,” he felt like a wolf catching sight of soft, sweet prey. Like he couldn’t give up the chase if he’d wanted to.

  “And why’s that, Sunshine?” he asked softly, holding himself very, very still, because if he moved, she might look down and notice his massive erection.

  “Because you’re too sensible to masturbate,” she said, but as soon as the words were out, she seemed to realize they were ridiculous. She bit her lip and shook her head and started again. “You’re too sensible to masturbate the way I do.”

  Dear God, he almost collapsed. His muscles almost gave out, possibly because every last drop of his blood had just reported for duty at his cock. He twisted his fist into the sheets so he couldn’t grab himself to ease that heavy pressure.

  “And what way is that?” he asked. Impressive, how there was only a hint of gravelly, I’m so horny I might die filth in his tone.

  “With a glittery dildo and fanfiction about Captain America’s tits,” she said.

  Jacob made a mental note to double up on chest day once his wrist had healed.

  “Look! Look!” She pointed at his face. “You’re freaking out.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. You’re horrified. You wank quietly and efficiently in the shower so all the evidence is washed away, don’t you?”

  He swallowed, hard. His hips p
unched up, just a little, when she said You wank. She was talking about him. She was thinking about him. Had she thought about him? “It’s easier, doing it in the shower.”

  “I knew it. And you probably think about, like, disembodied tits or something equally inoffensive and—”

  “Have you thought about this a lot? What I think about?” The question was out there before he could stop it.

  And her response was just as quick, just as reckless. “Well, yes. But when I think about it, your fantasies aren’t inoffensive at all.”

  * * *

  Was it possible to stuff words back into your mouth? Eve had asked herself that question several times over the years, but never quite so passionately as she did now.

  What the ever-loving fudgesicle had she just said?

  Bad enough that she’d forgotten all about the dildo hidden beneath the cushions. Even worse that it had disturbed Jacob deeply enough for his jaw to clench this tightly—so tightly she was genuinely worried he might crack a tooth. But to top it all off, she’d sort of accidentally given him a hint that she desperately fancied him. Him, and his big shoulders, and the way he nudged his glasses up his nose, and that air of calm control he had over everything, and the way that air vanished abruptly whenever he lost his shit.

  He was probably going to lose his shit right now. He was probably going to give her the mother of all lectures about appropriate workplace relationships and friendly interactions, and then he might throw several handbooks at her head and lock her in this room and possibly call a priest to cleanse the horniness out of her.

  Except he . . . didn’t. Instead, he leaned closer—so close she stopped breathing. She actually held her breath, and the tightness in her chest was mirrored by a sudden, delicious squeeze in her lower belly. Even lower, if she was being honest. She’d been hot and glittering inside since the moment he’d examined her sex toy with such laser focus. When he’d wrapped his long, strong fingers around something she’d orgasmed on just last night, she’d felt her clit swell. He’d tilted his head as he stared at it, questioning her in that steel-and-stone voice, and her breasts had felt heavy. Her pulse throbbed between her thighs. Every fold of her pussy grew slick and sensitive, rubbing against the dampened cotton of her underwear.

  And now here he was, leaning so, so close, and everything was getting worse. Arousal wound through her body as slow and sinuous as the music playing in the background. Which was “Special Affair” by The Internet, because of course a sexy-as-shit song would start playing right now. Of course it would.

  She shifted slightly in her seat, hoping the action was subtle, but apparently it wasn’t.

  “You’re wriggling, Eve.”

  “Well,” she huffed, “you could be a gentleman and not point it out.” But there was no irritation in her voice; she was too breathless, and too desperate, for that.

  “I could,” he agreed, before continuing to ask questions that made her bare skin feel electrified. “Are you uncomfortable?”

  “I—” She shifted just so and the cushion beneath her became a sweet pressure between her thighs.

  “Oh,” he said softly. “Not anymore.”

  She looked up at him sharply and saw, in those cool eyes, a white-hot understanding. One so certain, it made her wonder what he saw in her face. “Jacob—”

  “What do I fantasize about, in your head? Tell me. You might be closer to the truth than you expect.”

  Oh. Oh, gosh.

  It had occurred to her occasionally over the past week (mostly when he looked at her chest for a moment too long): Maybe Jacob is attracted to me. But she’d dismissed the thought every time, because Jacob was too sensible for inconvenient feelings, and because they’d barely even liked each other for five minutes, and because—because she was attracted to him, so clearly her perception couldn’t be trusted. She’d chalked it all up to wishful thinking and attempted to move on.

  But now common sense was slapping her in the face with a list of facts a mile long, starting with him calling her Sunshine and ending with the way his tongue slid out to wet the curve of his lower lip. His eyes were hungry on her, his focus dizzying. Not just wishful thinking.

  Not at all, apparently.

  If she was smart, she would end this conversation now. After all, she wanted him, which meant he couldn’t possibly be good for her. Eve’s wants, Eve’s choices, were always mistakes.

  But she did have a habit of making those mistakes. So it was no surprise, in the end, when she opened her mouth and gave in.

  “I think you fantasize about me.” She’d seen it in her mind’s eye a thousand times, now. Had heard the shower turn on from down the hall, and imagined his grip harsh and punishing over his flushed cock. Imagined him gritting his teeth as he came in his own hand and breathed her name.

  She’d just never expected, in a thousand years, to say as much to him. And she’d never expected to have him reply—“Yes.”

  He came even closer to her in the semidark, and then the knees of their crossed legs were nudging together, and his good hand created a dip in the mattress as he leaned on it, and his forehead bumped hers. Eve’s eyelids fluttered shut as his breath, still biscuit-sweet, ghosted against her mouth. “Yes,” he said again, “I think about you. I’ve been trying to stop. I haven’t—I haven’t even touched myself because that would make it wrong, Eve, really wrong, but I’ve been thinking and I haven’t been able to stop.”

  Her breaths were quick and so, so loud over the background hum of the music, but his were quicker and louder and that turned her frenetic, nervous lust into something slower and more sure. He’d pushed out his words as if his throat was thick with this forbidden need, as if he didn’t even want to say them—like he was clinging to them desperately with bloodied hands but they escaped on an uncontrollable wave anyway. She was being wanted, if not completely then too passionately to deny, and it settled over her like a blanket of snow and a wall of midsummer heat all at once: bright and fresh enough to suck the air from her lungs, but languorous and sensual, too.

  “We should do something about this,” she said.

  “No.” But he didn’t sit back, didn’t stop touching her. He touched her more. He leaned an elbow against the high sofa cushions, because his wrist couldn’t support him, and then he used his other hand to—to touch her cheek, a barely there caress.

  She shivered.

  “It would be a terrible idea,” he went on steadily. “I’m too hard, at present, to remember why it would be a terrible idea, but I feel certain that it would.”

  “Probably because we’re trying to be friends,” she supplied, “and because of the whole employ—”

  “Don’t say it,” he cut in. “At least, not before I kiss you.”

  “You’re going to kiss me?” She swallowed, a heavy swirl of pure want spiraling out from her pussy to skate through her entire body.

  “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t. I didn’t intend to. But look at your face.”

  She flushed. “What—what about my face?”

  “You’re so obviously horny,” he said. Which was rather mortifying, until he followed up with, “It’s very difficult to resist. So, yes, I think I’ll definitely be kissing you. As long as you’d like me to. Would you like me to, Evie?”

  It was the understatement of the century, but all she could manage was, “Yes.”

  And apparently that was all it took for Jacob to be done talking. His hand slid from her cheek to her hair, and he gathered her braids in a gentle fist and angled her head with the same aching precision he used to angle display pillows. Then he kissed her with a lack of restraint that blew said precision out of the water.

  Her pulse fluttered, desperate and relieved. A pool of liquid light glimmered behind her closed eyelids. For a moment all she could think was, I must be yours and clearly you are mine.

  Fortunately, her vagina quickly took over proceedings and replaced all those fanciful feelings with good, old-fashioned arousal.


  Eve moaned against the firm press of his lips, because her sensitized nerves had been ready for more of his delicacy, yet he’d given her pure passion instead. His tongue flicked out against the inside of her upper lip, a subtle yet insistent whip of warm, wet softness. Her mouth opened on a gasp and his tongue slipped deeper, teasing and taunting as his big body pressed against hers.

  She could feel his cast resting on the sofa cushions behind her head, the heat of his broad body directly in front of her, his left hand in her hair completing the cocoon of Jacob she’d been trapped inside. And she liked being trapped by him, being close to him. Liked it even more when he grunted and dragged his hand lower, down her throat and over the swell of her breast. She arched into his touch and he squeezed—sudden, strong, unapologetic. He just—he fucking groped her, and it was so un-Jacoblike and yet so completely him in its ruthless demand, her pussy seemed to dissolve into a pile of glitter. Wet glitter, if the sudden flood in her underwear was anything to go by.

  She shifted a little, searching for the pressure her body demanded, wanting this—wanting him—too much to be slow and measured. Sometimes, when Eve had sex, she felt like she should be stiller, quieter, in case whoever she was with realized that she genuinely lost her mind when she was horny, and they found it weird or overwhelming.

  Quite a few people had found it weird or overwhelming.

  But she felt oddly certain that Jacob wouldn’t be one of those people. And when she whimpered a little and sort of humped a pillow, she was proved right. Because all he did was break the kiss and pull back to look at her writhing body, and all he said was, “God, you’re amazing.”

  Eve bit the fleshy part of her hand, just under her thumb, because if she didn’t, she might bite him.

  “But we should stop,” he said. Only, he sounded a little hypnotized and he was still watching her with burning blue eyes. “We should really, probably stop. For the sake of professionalism, if nothing else.”