Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel)

by K. M. Golland

  “Ouch,” he interrupted, pretending to be offended.

  I poked my tongue out at him, and his eyebrows nearly hit the roof of the cab. Oh my God! Why did I just poke my tongue out at him?

  “Anyway,” I added, moving on as quickly as I could, “it’s Emily.”

  “Well, Emily, I will remember that. It’s a pretty name.”

  His smile was kind, sincere, and he was being nothing but a gentleman, but I’d be lying if I said he didn’t make me nervous in a strange way. And I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t fear or scepticism. He wasn’t creepy or pushy. I just felt slightly apprehensive where he was concerned, and I couldn’t say if it was him making me feel that way, or me.

  As humans, we have a natural tendency to read into things that are not necessarily there, and we do it because of doubt, because we are drawn to fact, and because our minds need answers. The funny thing is, deriving conclusions based on assumption answers absolutely nothing. All it does is confuse the fuck out of you even more so, which was how I currently felt. Ugh! It’s probably just me. Not him. And it’s probably because of Brad.

  I hadn’t been in a legit relationship for quite some time, so my apprehension where Mike was concerned was more than likely due to being unaccustomed to exactly what was crossing the line. I was naturally vivacious, flirty, a little naughty, and highly sexual, but I would never intentionally hurt a person my loyalty belonged to.

  “You alright?” Mike asked, breaking me from one of my many moments of where-the-hell-is-your-head-at-Em?

  I met his gaze and nodded. We were on our way back to the apartment.

  “At least it’s not Mildred, right?”

  “What?” I scrunched my face while trying not to laugh.

  “Emily is pretty. Mildred isn’t. If you’d said your name was Mildred, I would’ve responded ‘Shit, I’m sorry your parents are arseholes’.”

  This time I threw my head back and burst into laughter, all apprehension momentarily escaping me. “What’s wrong with Mildred?”

  “What’s not wrong with it? All I hear is mildew, and then I think of fungus. Fungus definitely isn’t pretty.”

  I snorted. Yep. Like a pig. Like a full-on wild boar with a partial nasal obstruction. It wasn’t pretty.

  Snort-laughing ceased, and I covered my mouth with both hands, my eyes wide.

  “At least you didn’t let one rip. There’s a good chance I wouldn’t give you another ride after that.”

  My laughing continued, but not the snort part. “Oh my God! I can’t believe I just did that. And anyway, if I had let one rip, it would be masked by the awful stench you have going on in here. Seriously, what is that smell?” I placed two fingers under my nose and with over exaggerated my look around the cab. “Dead body? Maggot orgy? Ohhhhh … I know what it is,” I drawled, pulling out his car ashtray. “It’s this. My bottom burps pale in comparison to this.”

  It was Mike’s turn to burst into laughter, except sadly, he didn’t snort. “Maggot orgy? Care to explain? And okay, I’ll admit, that does stink. I really need to quit.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “If only I had the right incentive.”

  The apprehensive niggle from before snuck back into the pit of my stomach. Except this time, it wasn’t so bad. This time, I accepted it and controlled its severity.

  “Well,” I offered, “maybe you just need to find it.”

  His eyes fleetingly met mine. “Maybe I will.”

  I like how they flush my skin pink.

  How I quiver when they wet the apex of my thighs,

  quenching my thirst and swallowing my cries.

  Yeah, I like how they flush my skin pink.

  I’d thanked Mike after we’d arrived back at the apartment block, inviting him in for a coffee because he’d insisted on carrying my bike to the door. He seemed really nice, and our conversation never dwindled … well, until I’d mentioned Brad and the fact I wasn’t single, which was when he made a point of skolling the rest of his second coffee, placing the mug in the sink, and then making up some lame excuse of having to meet up with an old friend from school.

  Lies.

  Technically, I had no idea if it were a lame excuse or not, but judging by his sudden departure at that particular point of our conversation, I’d say it was a decent assumption. Regardless, I’d felt the need to make him aware of my situation, because we’d been getting along like a house on fire. Actually, more like a raging factory inferno. And I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea or lead him on.

  He was so easy to talk to. And funny. And we’d bounced off of one another like a game of tennis. It was nice. I just hoped that by mentioning Brad, I hadn’t ruined the friendship Mike and I had begun to form.

  Placing my laptop on the bed, I opened it ready for a FaceTime chat with Brad. I’d received a message from him shortly after making myself dinner, informing me he’d be alone in his room after nine o’clock. It was ten minutes to nine, so I figured I’d ‘prepare’ for the occasion, digging out a black lace corset, garter and stockings from my drawer, planning to finish my outfit with a killer pair of black patent, ankle-strap stilettoes and my satin robe.

  Slipping my garter up my legs, my phone beeped an incoming message, but it wasn’t Brad’s tone. It was H’s.

  Mr Happy: Are you punishing me

  for being bad last night?

  I pondered his question as I zipped up my corset, and I honestly didn’t think I was punishing him. Sure, I hadn’t replied to his goodnight message, but I’d been busy.

  It was as simple as that.

  Em: No. You weren’t too bad last night.

  I’ve just had a busy day.

  Mr Happy: Yeah? Doin’ what?

  Rehearsals?

  I quickly rolled my stockings on and clipped them to my garter.

  Em: No. But I am back at the theatre tomorrow.

  Can’t wait.

  Mr Happy: I’d love to see you perform.

  I was just about to write ‘you can when the production tours Perth’ but stopped myself. I’d never actually considered H and I ever meeting, because it had always seemed out of the question. But how simple would it be for him to just show up at one of the shows when we toured Perth in the coming months? Whoa!

  The beat of my heart escalated to that of a thundering racehorse, and a tingling sensation travelled the length of my spine, perhaps in warning, perhaps with prospect.. Shut up, body. Please, for once just shut up.

  Realising I needed to respond to H, I was about to type back when a message from Brad came through.

  Brad: Ready when you are.

  My core clenched.

  My nipples peaked.

  And unlike the sensation I’d just felt in respect to H, the feeling I was experiencing now was one I knew all too well—imminent gratification.

  It was a very good sensation.

  Quickly sliding my heels on and buckling the straps, I shot Brad a response.

  Em: Give me a minute, K?

  Brad: You’ve got fifty-seven seconds.

  Brad: Fifty-five. Hurry.

  I rolled my eyes, smiled, and slid my robe over my shoulders, fastening the waist ties so that he wouldn’t see what was underneath until I was ready to show him. I then performed a quick check of my hair and face in the vanity mirror before making myself comfortable on the bed.

  Brad: Thirty seconds.

  Em: I’m ready if you want me.

  Brad: I want you.

  Em: Then dial.

  Brad: Confession … I don’t know how.

  Never done this shit before.

  Face-palming, I giggled and searched for his name on my contacts list, clicking on the little video icon next to it. An annoying tweet sound burst through my speaker, and a ‘connecting’ sign appeared on my screen. I waited eagerly, and soon enough the most adorably confused face I’d ever seen appeared before me.

  “What the fuck is this sh—”

  I waved, interrupting his cyber-rage. “Hi.”
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  “Fuuuuuck,” he groaned, and ran his hand through his hair. “I’m not sure I’m gonna like this video thing.”

  The smile on my face dropped. “Why not? What’s wrong?”

  “That.” He pointed at the screen and drew a circle with his finger. “All of that.”

  “All of what? What do you see? Crap. Is it bad?” I didn’t understand what was wrong, unless he had a bad connection and I didn’t.

  “You. I see you looking sexy as fuck and making my dick hard, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

  I sighed, relieved. “Oh. You had me worried for a second.”

  “Worried? You should be worried. I’m seconds away from trying to fuck my phone.”

  “Brad!” I laughed, but then lowered the tone of my voice. “Well … maybe I shouldn’t show you what’s underneath this robe then,” I teased, the tip of my pointer finger finding its way in between my smiling teeth.

  “You should definitely show me.” Brad swallowed and adjusted his position, moving so close to the screen that I could barely even make out his nose and cheeks. “You should show me now.”

  I giggled but remained in character. “It is a little hot in here. I should probably take off my robe, yes?”

  “Yes, you should. Take it off. Fuck the robe.”

  I tried not to laugh again, but he was making it really freakin’ hard, not to mention that all I could see were alternating close-ups of his face, mainly his nose.

  “Babe, do me a favour and move the phone away from your face a little bit. I think you’re hot, but nobody’s nostrils are sexy. Not even yours. Sorry.”

  He obliged. “That better?”

  “Yes, it is. Because I can now see your reaction when I show you this.” I slipped the robe from my shoulders and leaned forward on all fours, sliding the laptop along the bed and crawling backward to position myself on my knees, my back straight with my hands on my hips. “Do you approve?”

  Brad’s clenched white knuckle had found its way in between his teeth, his eyes wide and unblinking, his head tilted to the side just slightly. “Unravel the bow at your tits,” he murmured against his hand, voice dangerously low and soaked with desire.

  I bit my lip and hummed, keeping my eyes on his as I slowly pulled the ribbon at my chest, feeling the restriction of my corset ease with the unthreading of each loop by my finger. The satin and lace bodice came apart, exposing my breasts and hardened nipples. I couldn’t help myself, pinching them lightly and enjoying the delightful tickle as my head dropped back and an unashamed moan left my mouth.

  “Let them go. I want to see them.”

  I did as I was told and released them, running my hands up my chest, over my shoulders, and along my neck to rest upon my head. “Can you see them now?”

  He growled. Like an animal. Like some prehistoric growling hungry … thing.

  It was hot, but what was even hotter was the sound of him unfastening the zip of his jeans.

  “Do you have something to show me?” I asked, trying not to sound too keen.

  I was keen. Really fucking keen.

  “I do. But I want to see more of you first.”

  “You’re just greedy.”

  “Yes, I know. Now take off your underwear.”

  My eyebrow rose to counteract his brazenness, but I was more than happy to give him more. More for him equalled everything for me.

  Dropping my hands from my head, I trailed them over my chest, down my sides and to my thighs, unclasping the clips that held the stockings to my garter. His forearm had developed a subtle but continuous movement to it, and I swallowed heavily, desire over what he appeared to be doing shooting straight to my pussy. I wanted to see what he was holding. I wanted to see his thick, glossy cock, slick within his hand. And I wanted to see it now.

  Teasing my fingers under the seam of my underwear, I leisurely slid my hand beneath the material and dipped into the wetness that had pooled between my legs.

  I was already soaked—my finger, completely coated.

  It made me smile devilishly.

  “Show me,” he demanded, the movement of his arm no longer subtle.

  I nodded toward the screen. “You first.”

  Brad didn’t hesitate and tilted his phone, showing me his cock—engorged, glistening, and rock solid within his cupped hand. Seeing it ready and ripe for my lips stirred a hungry ache deep inside me. It looked so fucking mouth-watering. Every single inch of it. And I now understood why he’d become a prehistoric beast earlier on. I understood because I was seconds away from raping my laptop.

  “Your finger, Em. I want to see it. Show me.”

  I made a point to pump it in and out for him before pulling it free from my panties and holding it up, leaning closer to the screen as I trailed my arousal all over my bottom lip.

  The sweet smell of my desire hit me. It was enticing, and I couldn’t help but to taste, dragging my tongue over my lip and sucking it in.

  “Fuck, baby. I want to taste you so badly.”

  “Mm,” I moaned, wanting more.

  I slid my finger in my mouth and pulled it free, sucking unashamedly. Brad palmed his cock with vigour in response and adjusted his position on the chair, stretching his legs out and angling his hips toward the roof. Holy hell, those hips! What I wouldn’t give to ride them.

  “Take your panties off, then turn around and show me your arse.”

  This time, both my eyebrows rose, but the cheeky bastard ignored them.

  “You heard me, baby.” He twirled his finger in a circle, prompting me to follow suit.

  I smiled, removed my underwear, then dropped to my hands, and shuffled 180 degree until I faced the opposite way.

  He growled again. “That fucking perfect arse of yours. Slap it for me.”

  I did.

  “Harder.”

  I did.

  Crying out—because it hurt in the best way possible—I performed my own aftercare by rubbing the spot in soothing circular motions.

  “That’s right, rub it better. You deserve that.”

  Fuck, he was hot. Everything about him was hot—the way he looked, his confidence, his dominance, and his chivalry. What he said, what he wanted, and what he made me do, it was all so fucking hot. Hot with a capital hells yes!

  “Now, slide two fingers into that pretty little pussy of yours. Nice and slow. I want to see you spread yourself as you do it.” Holy fuck!

  My pussy pulsed, desperate for contact, and I was almost positive I’d come as soon as my fingers touched those delicious spots that loved to be touched. But I did it anyway, wanting that touch just as much as he wanted to see it, and circled around my slippery opening before pushing inside and moaning appreciatively.

  “You’re so fucking wet. Look at it dripping out of you. And that sound, that sound of your fingers slipping around … FUCK!” he yelled.

  Brad pumped his cock faster, and I paused to watch the beauty of it. Muscles tensed. Expression determined. Pre-cum coating his fingers and hand. It really was explicit sexual virility at its finest, and I was in a perverted daze admiring it.

  He stopped and held his cock poised, his body jerking and grunting as cum spilled from his swollen, pink head, puddling into pools on his sweat-dampened abs. Oh my God! Oh. My. Fucking. God!

  Desperate to finish myself off as well, I swivelled around, laid flat on my back and spread my legs wide for him, rubbing my clit until my thighs trembled, my pussy clenched, and I cried out his name.

  ***

  Brad and I more or less repeated our FaceTime chats on and off during the weeks that followed. Some nights, I was just too tired after rehearsals and not in the mood after sexting, and Brad was pretty much the same—tired and all sexed out. But we enjoyed just being able to see each other’s smiles nonetheless, wishing we could trace them with the tips of our tongues, which luckily enough, was what we’d be doing the following day.

  Cori, Josh, and Brad were due to arrive in Melbourne for a four-day break, and
I couldn’t wait. As in, I was jittery, jumpy, flappy-hands excited. I’d cleaned the house—crazy, I know—changed my sheets, bought food, and waxed every single hair on my body that was not on my head or a part of my neatly trimmed eyebrows. I was set. I was ready. I was baking.

  I never baked.

  “Hang on a minute,” I said to my sister, Sarah, who was on speakerphone, and who was also the culinary expert in the family. “So what does stiff peaks mean, other than the obvious? I can’t see this stuff peaking. It looks like clear jizz.”

  “You’re disgusting. Trust me, it will thicken when you beat it. Just keep adding the castor sugar as it mixes, and make sure your beaters are set to high.”

  “I’m making jizzeringues. Excellent!” I danced on the spot.

  “No, you’re not. You’re making meringues.” My sister was the serious type. Straight and narrow. No nonsense.

  “Whatever. So how will I know when it’s soft and peaky enough?”

  She sighed. “Okay. Let me break this down for you, even though you’re quite capable of reading a recip—”

  “Recipes are lies,” I interrupted, not wanting to hear her namby-pamby bullshit. “I’ve never known a recipe to tell the truth.”

  “Alright. Yep. Let’s go with that theory then.” Seriously, my sister ate sarcastic for breakfast and washed it down with a glass of cocky bitch.

  Daily.

  “So …” she continued, “the mixture will bubble when you beat it initially.” She paused. “You’ve put a pinch of salt in, right?”

  “No. What’s the point? It’s just a pinch.”

  “Ugh! Em … Put. A. Pinch. Of. Salt. In. Now!”

  “Why?”

  “It helps to stabilize and stiffen.”

  “You don’t say, huh? Does that also work with the male appendage?” I tried to sound as serious as I possibly could, knowing it would annoy her further. I loved my sister to the moon and back, but one of my favourite pastimes was stirring her. She loved it. True story.