by Troy Hunter
“That’s interesting,” I say.
I sit on the loveseat across the room, away from the direction he’s taking pictures. I suppose the shadows do stand out in contrast to the rest of the room. The darkness of the shadows and the way they’re broken by the band of light from the window reminds me of the striping of tiger’s eye. It does make a nice contrast.
“I think it’ll make for some good shots,” Nate says. “I can have the leading lady stand there and have the shadows move behind her back. Aesthetically, it’ll look good, and I can move in closer with the camera…just beautiful.”
I need him to stop talking like that. His voice, low and husky, weaves music in the air. It’s the sort of voice that could corrupt a priest and I don’t have nearly that much self-control. I bite the inside of my cheek as if the dull throb of pain can distract me from the wanton desire stirring in my belly.
“Yeah,” I say.
He keeps talking about camera angles, shadows, and how they both help shape film narratives. His voice grows to an excited pitch. I want to care about what he’s saying, but my thoughts are consumed with heat and the ache of my cock. His words dull to a low hum like background music or the soft buzzing of insects. I half-close my eyes and rub my cheek against the back of the loveseat.
His words cease, and for a second, there’s an unbearable silence between us. He approaches and looms over me, so powerful and large. My eyes linger on his shirt; I hadn’t noticed until now how tight it is or how it visibly highlights his magnificent abdominal muscles.
“I’m sorry,” I say. This is my friend. I shouldn’t be looking at him like this.
His nostrils flare, and I know he smells my arousal thick in the air. I want to be embarrassed, but I can’t quite manage it. Knowing he smells it only heightens my arousal. I shift my weight, trying to hide that I’m at least half-hard beneath my jeans.
“What for?” Nate asks slowly.
“For this,” I say. If I’m in heat, there’s a chance I’ll send him into rut. That’s typically how these things work.
Nate grasps my wrists and strokes my skin with his thumbs. “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had sex,” Nate growls.
No, it’s been a long time, though. Five or six years at least. When we tried dating and it didn’t work out. But my heart is in my throat. I know him and trust him, and that’s surely a more responsible decision than having sex with a complete stranger.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Nate nods. “Let me know if you change your mind, Kitten,” he says.
He pats my thigh and walks back to the wall. I lick my lips and I can feel myself flushing, my ears, my neck, and my face. I do want him, but there’s something else. There’s something else muddled in there. He’s…willing to do that for me. If I want it. And I do want it, but he’s my friend. We can’t have sex. Even if we’ve had it before, that isn’t how friendships work. But then, I think that now. I don’t know how long my resolve will hold out.
5
Felix
Nate is at the house again, and I’m here, alone, in the hotel room. I step from the freezing shower. I’d known it would likely be a vain attempt to quench the fire twisting in my stomach and to diminish my erection. It might’ve helped a little with the former, but it’s done nothing to reduce my sex drive. I brace myself against the bathroom sink. As I clear the condensation from the mirror and glimpse my flushed face and dilated pupils, my breath hitches.
Sex is the only thing I can think about, but now thoughts of sex are muddled with images of Nate. And that’s not a good thing. He’s my friend. Even if I’m going into heat, that’s no reason to have sex with him. I have some self-control. I can do this. This will be over in a week. I can tough it out.
But I don’t want to tough it out. I think about Nate returning and slamming open the door, not because he means to, but because that’s just what he does. I think of his nostrils flaring and his eyes narrowing in on me. I think of his hands firmly holding my hips and of his strong thrusts as his cock moves in and out of my ass. I think of my orgasm building and the way Nate grunts when he’s exerting himself, and it’s all just too much at the moment.
I stare at myself in the mirror knowing masturbation doesn’t really work when I’m in heat. It’s not just about the sexual pleasure, it’s partly a biological drive to breed. My throat is thick. Just one time. Would it really be that big of a deal? We’ve done it before and we’re both single. It’s not really us changing things much. So we’d be friends with benefits but lots of people have that arrangement. Nate is right, too, in that he’s a safer alternative to a one-night stand with a complete stranger. Although I’m very careful and use safe practices when having sex, it is more comforting to do it with someone I already know well. I can also trust Nate to be careful, and I know he’s careful with his partners.
By the time I dress and make it to bed, I’ve nearly convinced myself that having sex with him is a good idea. There’s something else, though, that I can’t quite puzzle out. Nate is an alpha, yes. He’s a bit of a control freak, too, but unlike some alphas he never tries to force me into doing anything I don’t want to. We argue sometimes about my choices, but overall, I think he respects my independence. These are things I’ve known for ages, but now that I’m thinking about Nate and sex, they’ve somehow all become tangled up together. Tangled like a pile of jewelry carelessly abandoned, but I can’t sort this out with a pair of wire pliers and patience.
I put on my pajamas and curl up in bed. It’s comforting and soft beneath the covers, although whatever fabric softener this hotel uses in the wash is powerful enough to wake a dead man. My nose is accosted with the scent of vanilla.
I turn on the TV. What else can I really do? I suppose I can technically go out in the middle of the day to find someone to have sex with, but that’s different from going to a bar at two in the morning for a quick hook-up. I flip through the channels until I find an Adam Sandler movie. The rational part of me—or perhaps the part that’s listened to Nate too much—knows that the majority of Sandler’s movies are bad, but I still consider them a guilty pleasure.
Just sitting in bed all day watching old Adam Sandler movies wouldn’t be a bad way to spend a day if I hadn’t gone into heat. It’s been a very long time since I did something as simple as sit down and watch movies. I consider calling room service or Nate to see if I can get some popcorn. At an expensive hotel like this, they probably get more requests for caviar than for anything else, but at the same time, they’d probably get me the popcorn I want.
This isn’t where I wanted to be at twenty-two. I’d wanted to be stable and capable of supporting myself; I have that, but it’s just not on the scale I’d imagined. If I devote enough time and energy to it, my jewelry business will really take off. I can make that happen, no problem, but it’s still distressing to remember how far I thought I’d be by now.
I half-watch the movie, sometimes pausing to draw the blanket across my crotch, hoping the small friction might offer a bit of relief. It does nothing.
The door opens, and Nate walks in. He’s wearing shorts and a sleeveless shirt. I try and fail not to stare too much at the tantalizing hint of his muscular thighs.
“Dear God,” Nate growls. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.
At least we’re on the same page. I shift on the bed and spread my legs a little. Nate’s eyes follow the movement. His gasp of breath is sharp and audible.
“Have you gotten any better since we last did this?” I ask.
He practically dives at me. The box springs screech. Without hesitation, he throws aside the comforter and strips it from the bed. He straddles my waist and puts his head close to mine. “Are we doing this?” he asks.
His voice is excited and husky and his breath feels warm on my face. The scent of cinnamon and chocolate mingles in the air alongside the smell of his cologne and the fabric softener. My pulse quickens. I lick my lips and breathe more quickly. “Yes,” I say. “Pl
ease. Please, say you have condoms.”
He rolls off me, and I jump, startled by his sudden absence.
“I always keep them with my toiletries,” he says.
Right. Because he is a handsome, wealthy man, and being both handsome and wealthy is bound to land you some sexual partners. I watch as he slowly removes his shorts. They settle on the floor with a note of finality. We’re doing this. We’re really doing this. My heart beats so loudly I can hear it in my head.
“I’ll try not to bite you this time,” I say, trying to hide my anxiety with humor.
The foil packaging of the condom crinkles. “I’m sure you’ve improved somewhat,” Nate replies. “If not, you really need to rethink your choice in lovers.”
I laugh at the joke, but really, my mind is on how slow he is, he’s taking his time and I want his warmth and weight back. My cock twitches, and I shift my hips, trying to ready myself. I hope we don’t both regret this later. I hope I’ve improved.
Nate steps out of his shorts and walks back to the bed. He’s already rolled the condom on and I swallow hard at the sight of the orange latex. I can do this. Finally, some relief. It’s so tantalizingly close. He tosses a bottle of lube on the bed. I don’t reach for it but make sure I see where it lands; I don’t want it getting lost in the sheets.
He climbs on the bed and grasps my thighs, firmly but not harshly. I buck my hips and breathe hard while he watches me. I feel like a mouse caught in a cat’s gaze, but every fiber of my being enjoys the feeling. The feeling of anticipation, the unspoken promise of what he will do and might do. “Please,” I beg.
He keeps his eyes on me, but his hands move up to trail his rough fingers up my thighs, to my hips, and beneath my shirt. I tense when he moves quickly up my abs and teases my nipples with his thumbs. “Have you wasted your whole night and morning thinking about this?” he asks.
Nate is really turning on the seduction now. He can do this thing where he makes his voice lower and somehow more tantalizing. I buck my hips against him only to feel his cock is already hard. I feel that much, but he doesn’t even react to my attempts to hasten the act.
He rolls my nipples between his fingers, and I tilt my head back, savoring the dull, pleasant ache. “You’ve gotten much slower,” I say.
“Maybe I just like to watch you squirm,” Nate replies. “Careful not to complain too much. It’ll wound my pride, and I might have to leave you unsatisfied.”
He wouldn’t. I know him well enough to know that.
“Sorry,” I say, regardless. “No more complaints. I promise.”
“Good man.”
He shoves my shirt up, so the fabric pools around my armpits. Then, he lowers his head to my chest, his tongue damp and hot. Every cell of my body is hypersensitive in my state of arousal, and I shiver with every movement he makes. My cock aches. I really just need him to touch me. I can’t get any good friction this way, and I need this. I’ve been thinking about sex for an entire night and half the morning.
But no complaining.
I suck in a deep breath, and then another. Finally, he makes his way back down to my waist. His hands land on my pajama pants and pull them down and off me. My boxers follow. He positions himself between my thighs; the fabric of his shirt is soft against my sensitive skin. He grabs the lube and pauses, suddenly, shaking with laughter.
“Why are you laughing?” I ask. I don’t know whether to be confused, offended, or angry. There’s nothing hilarious about my penis.
“I was thinking about what you said,” Nate replies, grinning diabolically, “About fucking with Freud. We could do that. We just have to sneak right over and fuck in the haunted house with all the scary ghosts watching.”
“Just because we can do something doesn’t mean we should,” I reply. “Even I know having sex in a haunted house is a good way to get yourself killed.”
Now I’m imagining how awkward it would be to have our sex session interrupted by a massive portrait of Freud falling off the wall on top of us. Nate squirts the lube when I’m distracted, and I jump at the shock of just how cold it is.
Nate smiles and gropes my ass, encouraging me to lift my hips and give him better access. “No complaining,” Nate adds gleefully.
I groan. He takes his time there, too. It takes an eternity for me to feel the tip of his finger coax my entrance to open wider. His finger enters slowly and carefully and I arch my back off the bed to try and force him deeper inside me. Nate mercifully moves closer. Then, his finger is inside me. I claw at the bedsheets. It’s just occurred to me that the walls here might be really thin, and I’m sure the guests staying in the rooms either side don’t want to listen to my sex noises.
Nate’s second finger goes in more suddenly, and I emit an awkward-sounding shout of surprise mingled with pleasure. I hadn’t thought I could want sex anymore than I already did, but Nate is proving me wrong. And I hate him for it.
But I really love him for it, too.
“Please, hurry,” I say. The breath I draw shudders through my chest.
“Is that a complaint?” Nate asks, his tone warning.
I shake my head.
Nate scissors his fingers inside me and my thighs tremble, my hips bucking of their own accord. It’s like I’m suddenly watching my own body react to his attention, and the loss of control only stirs me forward. Nick withdraws his fingers. “Ready?” he asks.
I nod. He lines his cock up with my ass and enters slowly. There’s the sudden sensation of being full inside, and I shift my hips and thighs to adjust to the feeling. He pulls out quickly and thrusts back in. A stream of swear words burst from my throat.
“You want to damn me to hell, huh?” Nate asks, halting his movements with his cock still inside me.
I scowl. “Come on, you ass.”
“But I’d rather talk about your ass,” Nate replies, teasingly edging out.
I grab a spare pillow and hurl it at him. He only laughs and pushes back in. Once he’s done that a few more times, it’s clear he’s through baiting and teasing me. He moves in and out with startling speed. I twist my hands so tightly in the sheets it almost hurts and I toss my head back burying it in the downy pillow.
I’m being very loud, but I seem to have lost all ability to care. Even if a portrait of Sigmund Freud, fell onto my head right now, I think I’d be perfectly content to carry on having sex.
My inner walls stretch further as Nate knots inside me. I groan, and he thrusts harder. I nearly come from the first thrust but then, he does it again and again. I’m sweating everywhere, and the sharp tang of it makes me breathless. I gasp and pant as he comes. I can’t feel his semen because of the condom, but I can feel his body shudder against mine. He pulls out suddenly, and the world seems to come to a halt. There’s a second of blinding whiteness, as I come myself, all my thoughts shattering apart like a pickaxe breaking through a quartz crystal.
“Dear God,” I say.
“Maybe we keep religion out of this,” Nate growls.
“Maybe I want to join a sex cult,” I say.
Nate’s laughter rumbles up from his chest. He pats my bare thigh fondly and then turns away. I lay on the bed, very satisfied and relieved. The world has fallen back into place and heat no longer curls in my belly.
“We’ll have to get new sheets,” I say. I grimace realizing I hadn’t even considered that the poor maids will now have to wash our sweaty, semen-soaked sheets. “They’re going to have to clean these,” I say. “I didn’t even think of that.”
“I promise we aren’t the first people to have sex in a hotel bed,” Nate replies.
“It’s the principle of it. Would you want to clean up a stranger’s semen-laden sheets?”
“No, but I’d pay someone to do it for me.”
“That isn’t funny. I’m serious. What are we supposed to do with them?”
“Throw them away,” Nate says. “I guess.”
“Throw them away? We can’t just throw away the sheets!”
; “Why not?” Nate asks. “They’ll charge me for them, and it’ll be fine.”
“But that can’t be conventional,” I say. “Everyone can’t just throw away the sheets. There must be some kind of etiquette for it.”
“Sure,” Nate says, “But I say let’s just toss them and get charged for them. If you’re really so upset about it, you can take them home and wash them, then you’ll have a new set of sheets.”
I guess the point is moot with him, but Nate’s solution still seems absurd. “Fine,” I say.
“You don’t look like you’re in too much of a hurry to get rid of those sheets, though.”
“I just want to lay here for a minute.”
Nate smirked. “I’m that good, huh?”
“Yes, you’re that good,” I reply in all honesty, “But where do we go from here?”
Nate arches an eyebrow. “From here?”
“Yeah. What was this? What are we now?”
Nate crosses his arms and shrugs. “Still best friends,” he says. “Best friends who just…occasionally have sex with one another. We don’t have to start a relationship if that’s what you’re thinking. I mean, we tried that before, and it didn’t work.”
“Right.”
“Why did you ask?”
I don’t know. It is an odd thing to ask. I have sex with people all the time and I never expect anything more from them. But it’s different, because it’s Nate.
“I mean, this probably won’t happen very often anyway,” Nate replies. “Not that I’d complain. You’ve come a long way in your sex game.”
The last time we were together, we broke up because it was so awkward. We just weren’t suited to be boyfriends, but we were much younger then. Maybe…
Maybe we could try again. I don’t quite know where that thought comes from. Whether it’s something new or something I’ve been thinking over for a while. But it’s hard to sort my thoughts out when he’s so close to me.
I’m reminded of coming home to my apartment morning after morning and having him there waiting for me. I don’t want to be taken care of. I don’t want to be a charity case, but at the same time, there’s something…charming, appealing even, in the way Nate is so persistent in trying to help me.
