Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel)

by K. M. Golland

  “Morning, guys. How are we all?” I asked cheerily, pulling the towel from around my shoulders free and making my way to the lateral pull-down machine.

  “Morning, Em,” Chief replied with a smile, then went back to focussing on his leg presses.

  Noah was at the boxing bag, gloves on, paused but poised and ready to resume his sequence of punches. He lifted his chin before addressing me. “Morning, sweet cheeks.”

  I shot him a playful eyebrow-raise before twisting to adjust the weight level of my machine, inserting the pin at 40kg. My fingers gripped the foam-covered handles, and I pulled down, glancing at Brad as the bar met my chest. His eyes were fixed to mine, unwavering and penetrating, causing a flush of heat to rise to the surface of my skin. I swallowed and held his gaze before I released the bar hold and stretched my lats. The extension felt good. Just what I needed.

  Brad was seated on the edge of a weight bench opposite me, legs apart, one elbow resting on his thigh while performing a bicep curl by lifting a rather large dumbbell. He was shirtless and wearing loose black shorts, which rode low on his hips. I wanted to ride low on his hips, too. To rock back and forth as my thighs pressed into his sides. My God, he was yummy. Smooth skin and rigid lines, sweat-dampened strength and steely eyes. He was all kinds of tame-my-wild-vagina, and I was more than willing to let him try.

  Allowing my gaze to roam his body as he flexed and released, flexed and released, I performed some internal flexing and releasing of my own—also known as a pelvic floor. And fuck me to the land of climax, because if I kept this up, incontinence would forever be my bitch. Not a bad bitch to have if I do say so myself.

  “You gonna pull down, sweet cheeks?” Noah asked, snapping me out of my flexing and releasing stupor.

  “Sure am. Just easing in to it.”

  “If you eased any longer, the machine would rust up.”

  “Your own business, you should mind,” I said sarcastically in the backwards Yoda-speak he often did. “The fuck up, you should shut.”

  Chief and Brad laughed, as did Noah.

  “Pay that, I shall.”

  I winked acknowledgment of his surrender. “So guys, when am I gonna see you all dance and take your clothes off? Apparently you’re kinda good at that stuff.”

  Brad grunted mildly with the strain of the dumbbell, and it was about the sexiest sound I’d ever heard. “Tomorrow night.”

  “Excellent! I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve all got.”

  My double entendre was deliberate. Brad smirked but kept performing his bicep curl, so I continued as well, both of us working in unison. We kept at it for a short while, but it soon became apparent that we were exercising in competition with one another. He flexed. I pulled. He released. I released.

  Flex.

  Pull.

  Release.

  Release.

  Talk about intensity. It swirled in the space between us, invisible, yet unmistakably present and building by the second. My eyes were trained on his, unblinking and focussed, even though beads of sweat formed on my brow. Fuck off, sweat. Not now. I have a stare-off/weight-lifting battle to win. And win I would, because I was a natural-born competitor. I competed at shop sales, pedestrian crossings … McDonald’s drive-throughs. I even competed for space during my daily run, against the elderly couples walking their dogs along St Kilda pier. My motto: If you weren’t in it to win it, you were a stupid fuck. Winning was good. It was better than losing.

  And I wasn’t a stupid fuck, and neither was Brad, apparently, because it was clear he wasn’t giving up our silent war. He was relentless, raising that cursed dumbbell as if it were a feather. You aggravating, dancing man-meat.

  Oh well … because power of the pussy. The almighty muff. Sausage wallet of supremacy. The unconquerable cun—okay, you get my drift. But yes, the majestic vagina was the ultimate wild card in any battle with a man. And luckily for me, I owned one and Brad didn’t. And I wasn’t opposed to using it if it meant certain victory.

  All was fair in penises and vaginas.

  Psyching up my lady-pie, I drew upon her powers of persuasion, coercing them to the surface where they blossomed across my skin in the form of seductive confidence. Okay, Mr Stubborn Sun-kissed God, let’s see how you flex and release now.

  I pursed my lips, holding my smile at bay but grinning just enough so that he could see I meant business. He registered the change in my demeanour right away, his eye twitching and his eyebrows bunching just mildly. Bingo! It was working already, because I had the upper hand, albeit minutely. Regardless, I kept my cool and forged ahead with my plan, slowly spreading my legs at a 180-degree angle and allowing him sight of just how flexible I could be. Why? Because men loved the idea of a flexible woman. They liked the concept that our bodies could be stretched, twisted and turned into a shape ripe for fucking, which mine could—my newly spread-eagled legs a clear indication of that.

  Brad’s gaze dropped to the apex of my thighs, his stare fixated on my ink blue Ombre Lorna Jane element shorts, which were super tight. And due to them being super tight, I never wore underwear with them.

  It was perfect, because when I released the pull-down bar, my arms stretching upward, I tilted my pelvis forward just slightly, prompting the seam of my shorts to tighten against my magical muff. The pressure on my clit was instantaneous, and I knew what would now be visible was a camel toe—a pretty little, perfectly accentuated, material-covered labia. Yes, sexy surfer-man, read my lips.

  Men loved camel toes, just as much as women loved trouser bulges.

  Brad paused and his Adam’s apple bobbed, and I thought I had him. But I didn’t, because his eyes found mine and flared determination as the dumbbell rose to his shoulder. F. U. C. K. E. R.

  Come on. My toe of camel is one of the best to exist.

  I wasn’t giving up though. No siree. If anything, I was even more hell-bent on bringing the shithead down. That meant upping my ante, which I was more than capable of doing. So, pulling the bar down again, I rocked my pelvis back then released the bar to rock forward again. I repeated the motion, subsequently dry-humping the leather bench I sat on.

  Em, what are you doing? Stop fucking the gym machine. I wasn’t going to lie: the friction felt kinda good, and I really was past the point of backing down. I was all in, as if possessing a full house in poker, so started moaning quietly but loud enough for Brad to hear.

  “Mmm.”

  His jaw clicked and he let his arm fall to rest on his leg, the dumbbell now dangling from his hand. I smiled but kept rocking, once, twice, three times, just to drill in my accomplishment, breathing heavily as I did so.

  Victory.

  Em–1, Brad–0.

  Pussy Power won again.

  Pussy Power won every time.

  I’d like to say that I finished strong for Brad, but I didn’t. Nope. My bench dry-humping prowess had been purely for my own benefit and I wanted him to know that. I wanted him to know that I was more than capable of pleasing myself and that I didn’t need a sexy surfer god to do it for me. I could cook, clean, build shit and fuck, all on my own. I was self-sufficient; a horny little Mary Poppins who ate IKEA furniture construction for breakfast.

  “Damn! That weight bench, I want to be,” Noah said, before resuming his punch sequence.

  I looked up, spotting him clicking his neck from side to side and appearing to loosen some tension. Matt had also paused and gawked at me, but he quickly resumed his leg-presses when our eyes met. Crap. I totally forgot they were even here.

  “Nicely played, sexy pixie.”

  My sight swung toward the rich, raspy tone that was Brad’s voice, finding an expression so hedonistically predatory that my vagina didn’t know whether to let off fireworks or shrivel with fear. Son of a bitch! Yep. He successfully disarmed me with his voice and stare, like a hypnotist, and I was falling fast into his trance. Em, snap out of it.

  Blinking once, twice, I shot up and smiled my false bravado, walking to the spot in the ro
om that was farthest away from him. Distance was safe. Distance was smart. As was I … until I realised that the station I’d walked to belonged to that of the chin-up bar.

  I hated chin-ups.

  Despised them.

  They were stupid and nearly killed you.

  Shit-fuck.

  Turning in my spot to find an alternative workout routine, I very quickly became aware that there were none unless I moved to a different spot, and I wasn’t about to do that and reveal my not-so-smart retreat from Brad’s trance.

  I glanced over at him in the hope he wasn’t watching me, which was kinda pointless, because he was. Of course he was. And the smartarse didn’t say anything, instead directing his gaze to the bar above my head with a ‘go on, be my guest’ smirk beaming from his face. Damn it! I had no choice. Chin-ups were inevitable. And they were not going to be pretty. I could do them, but I wasn’t very good. Ugh! Who the fuck invented the chin-up anyway? I had a sneaking suspicion that it was Popeye.

  Stupid sailor.

  Ignoring the gloating that blared from Brad and smacking me in the face, I tilted my head back and reached for the bar, realising I was a little too short. No, damn it!

  Before I could bend my knees and propel myself up, Brad’s firm hands gripped my waist from behind and lifted me gently so that I could reach.

  “That better?” he asked, his voice low and suggestive. Heat from his breath skated across the back of my neck. It was divine, and I nearly lost my grip.

  “Yes. Thank you.” I tried to sound annoyed, but I wasn’t. I was anything but annoyed.

  “Anytime.” He let go and moved to stand in front of me, amusement rife in the crossing of his arms in front of his chest. “Want to start with, say … ten?”

  Okay, now I’m annoyed.

  I flashed him an excessively sweet smile. “Sure.” Then, all but groaning, I activated my biceps and pulled myself up to the bar. The first chin-up was always … let’s say … a little shaky, so I shrugged my wobbly arm movement off and focussed on finding a rhythm, which wasn’t hard when the numbers one and then two were shouted across the room by Noah.

  I glared at the evil twin, but timed my third lift when he voiced three. Okay, I can do this.

  “Four.”

  Lift.

  “Five.”

  Lift.

  See? It’s not that bad.

  “Six”

  Liiiffft.

  I’m stronger than I think.

  “Seven”

  Liii …

  Pfft … lies.

  I wasn’t strong. I had minimal upper-arm strength, and the burn of my muscles as I pulled up for seven was now indisputable. God … damn it … this … is … stuuuu … pid.

  The struggle was real. So real that Noah had voiced eight twice and I hadn’t even made it three-quarters of the way to the bar.

  “Need a hand?” Brad asked, stepping forward.

  I wanted to say ‘no, bugger off, use your own hand’, but when his large warm fingers slid onto my hips once again, there was no way I was saying anything that would have him retracting them. Instead, I smiled passively.

  “Just a little hand.”

  He nodded and tightened his grip, lifting me so that my breasts were level with his face. My nipples hardened instantly, as if aware that what they wanted was right before them. And I reckon they did know. I strongly believed that they had their own language, just like the witches and wizards of Slytherin House in Harry Potter could speak parseltongue. My nipples spoke … longfultongue. Yes, they did. They longed for Brad’s tongue to sweep their peaked peakiness, to flick repeatedly, and to draw them into his mouth then let go with a pop.

  “Eight,” Brad said, before guiding me back down slowly, his lips grazing mine as my head passed his. My lips tingled. Ferociously. And I couldn’t help but open them just slightly, my invitation for him to come on inside.

  Up I went again.

  “Nine.”

  Longfultongue.

  Lip graze.

  Shit-fuck. Kill me now.

  My body buzzed with need, a need only he could cure with his own. It weakened my limbs, my mind … my ability to breathe and focus.

  It weakened my resolve.

  I’d felt this buzz before, but it had never been curable with a physical presence. It was cured with words … H’s words. Oh yeah, and BOB. Bob cured all my buzzy needs.

  Rising once more, my chin tapped the bar as Brad said ‘ten’. He then wrapped his arms around my waist and arse, bearing my weight so that I could let go. I dropped my hands to rest upon his shoulders. A mischievous gleam radiated from Brad’s face, and I couldn’t help but grin curiously as he turned around and allowed me to slowly slide down his front.

  Oh! Now I get it.

  He was hard. I could feel it right there against my belly. And if it could talk, I was sure it would get its Dirty Harry on and ask me if I felt lucky.

  I did.

  Very lucky.

  “Now watch how it’s done properly,” Brad advised, releasing his hands and cementing me in my spot by giving my shoulders a light condescending squeeze.

  Whaaaat?

  Brad turned and grasped the bar with one arm, his other arm twisted to rest alongside his back. His muscles flexed and protruded—even farther than what they already did when relaxed—and his body lifted from the ground. I watched in silent awe as he bounced with fluidity, the smooth and effortless motion almost fictional.

  I swallowed. Well, at least I think I swallowed. I could’ve performed one of those open-and-close-fish-mouth faces instead. I wasn’t sure. The sudden onset of brain flatulence had me at a loss as to what I was doing. Help! Someone help!

  As if my silent pleas were heard through the best friend vortex, my phone beeped Cori’s message tone and snapped me back into a state of cognition. I reached behind and plucked my phone from the small pouch hidden in my waistband.

  Cori: Where are you?

  I typed a response without diverting my eyes from Brad. Diversion would’ve bad. A terrible idea.

  Em: Can’t remember.

  Gym, I think.

  Cori: Why can’t you remember?

  Did you fall off the treadmill and hit your head?

  Em: No. Head is fine.

  Head is currently mesmerised by a sexy yo-yo.

  Cori: I know you like having sex with toys,

  but a yo-yo is crossing the line.

  Em: I want to lick this yo-yo all over.

  I want to put it in my mouth and suck on it.

  Cori: What exactly does this yo-yo look like?

  I returned my sight to Brad, taking in the delightful view appeasing my vagina.

  Em: Like a suspended orgasm.

  Cori: Okaaaaay. Anything else?

  Em: Like a weapon of vag-destruction.

  Cori: So your lickable yo-yo looks like a barbed dildo?

  Em: Not quite, but close.

  I couldn’t help but laugh, which was when Brad turned himself around, swapping his grip on the bar in one super-quick, fluent move. My eyes directed themselves down his glistening chest, over his six-pack-city stomach, along his delectable V, across his shorts and to his legs. I admired their golden smooth strength for a second, then journeyed back up his body until I met his proud and entertained grin.

  I grinned back and lifted my phone to take a pic, forwarding the shot I’d just snapped to Cori. Brad narrowed his gaze, but I kept grinning until Cori responded.

  Cori: I see. Would you still like me to stop by …

  to chisel you from the seat you’re no doubt stuck to?

  Em: I’m good.

  I’ve not dried between my legs yet.

  Cori: Of course you haven’t.

  But you may want to see to that soon.

  We’re going to Dreamworld today.

  Em: Really? Awesome. I love Dreamworld.

  Shits all over Seaworld.

  Cori: Yeah. Josh’s request.

  Tell the guys that Baz leaves in an
hour.

  Placing my phone back in its pouch, I stood up. “Right, you lot. We’re going to Dreamworld. The Tower of Terror II awaits us.”

  Brad stopped his chin-ups and lowered his legs to stand. “You’re gonna go up the tower?” His wide eyes mocked me.

  “Pfft … please. My vibrator is bigger than that tower.” I picked up my towel, swung it back around my shoulders, and walked to the door.

  Grabbing the handle, I glanced back at Brad. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  ***

  “Absolutely no way in hell am I going on that thing,” Cori stated categorically, as we exited the bus at the parking lot of Dreamworld. She shook her head and threw her hands up dismissively.

  I laughed. Cori had a fear of heights, which had lasted for as long as I’d known her. She wouldn’t even go on the rickety old rollercoaster at Luna Park—a historical theme park opposite our apartment—and that thing was about as tall and scary as Ronald McDonald. The Tower of Terror II, though … well, I couldn’t blame her for shitting her pants just at the sight of it. It was huge. The tower portion of the ride stood basically at the height of the second-floor observation deck of The Eiffel Tower. So yeah, panty-soiling was warranted.

  A low rumbling noise emanated in the distance, escalating to what sounded like a roll of thunder mixed with high-pitched screams of horror. It was also the point at which the rollercoaster cart appeared up the side of the tower, elevating to a point just shy of the top. It dropped back down with the same roar and incessant screams it had gone up with, and all within the space of a few seconds. If you blinked, you could’ve missed it, sans the God-awful noise.

  “Fuck, no!” Cori said, pointing to the tower. “Over my dead body.”

  “Sweetheart, it’s a piece of piss. Over in less than ten seconds. You don’t even have to open your eyes.”