Bigger Rock

by Lauren Blakely

  I’ve got it bad for this girl. I’ve got a textbook condition of a classic illness. I’m suffering from a motherfucking case of falling in love.

  And I’m not ready to take a pill to cure it.

  21

  It’s a scene ripped straight from a fantasy I never knew I had. But it’s so incredibly enticing that the vision in front of me has shot straight up the ranks.

  We’re talking the Pantheon of dirty images, and it’s not even filthy.

  Yet.

  Josie’s in the kitchen, wearing an apron and heels. Her hair is twisted in a bun with a chopstick stabbed through it. A home-cooked meal sits cooling on the rack on the stovetop. I’ve never had naughty housewife fantasies, but I think I might now.

  The apartment smells like my favorite food ever, the one I missed most in Africa—pizza pie with cheese and mushrooms.

  An ’80s tune, “Tempted” by Squeeze, is playing. If I stop to think about it, the lyrics are wildly wrong. It’s technically a song about straying. But I’m convinced this song became famous because all you hear in this tune is the longing, the want, the hunger for another person. That’s the thing about song lyrics. You take the parts that speak to you.

  Temptation talks loud and clear to me.

  Temptation shakes her butt to the beat.

  Lord help me.

  This.

  When the door falls shut behind me with a loud snap, Josie startles and swivels around. She brings her hand to her chest. “Oh God, you scared me.”

  “Sorry,” I say, dropping my keys on the table by the door.

  She grabs her phone from the counter and lowers the volume. “Hey,” she says, setting the cell down as I enter the tiny kitchen. “I made you a—”

  I crush her mouth to mine before she can say “pizza.” A sexy ohh escapes her lips, and then she gives me all I want.

  Her.

  She loops her hands around my neck, her fingers traveling up to my hair, playing with the ends. Lust charges down my spine. I sweep my lips across hers, our mouths connecting as we find the rhythm that makes this kiss its own kind of sexy song. I can’t break it down to the melody or the lyrics, the notes or the chords. All I know is, this kiss has all the makings of a number-one hit. It has that certain something. That indefinable quality that hooks you right in the heart, hits you hard in the chest and sends the heat levels to incendiary.

  Backing her up a few inches to the counter, I slam my body against hers. A sharp, sexy gasp falls from her lips as I break the kiss.

  “Hey you,” I whisper hungrily.

  “Nice to see you, too,” she says, then pulls me back to her, our lips crashing together once more. My hands dive into her hair, and I rip the chopstick out, letting those soft brown strands spill over my fingers as the wooden stick clatters to the floor.

  As I kiss her, my mind goes hazy, and I shove aside all thoughts of anything but lust and want and heat. Clasping her face in my hands, I kiss her even harder, even hungrier, until I can’t take just kissing her. I have to have more of her.

  All of her.

  When I break the kiss, she’s panting. Her hair is a wild mess. Her lips are swollen and red, almost bruised. Her green eyes shine with desire. She’s never looked hotter than she does right now. My eyes roam down her body. Her apron is light blue, with a cherry pattern on it. She wears a skirt under it, and the dark red material lands right above her knees.

  Underneath the apron is some kind of strappy little white tank top. Brushing my hands along her arms, I watch her shiver.

  “This apron . . .” I say, fingering the hem.

  “Yeah?”

  My hands dart up to her chest, then around her neck where it ties. But I don’t undo the knot. “There’s something I’m curious about.”

  “What is it?”

  As I fiddle playfully with the straps, I meet her eyes. “I can’t stop wondering how you’d look in just this apron on top.”

  Her lips curve up in a naughty grin, and she reaches behind her. The little ping of a clasp coming undone lands on my ears, and I groan. She’s freeing her breasts from their confines. My body hums with anticipation. I lick my lips as I watch every move she makes. Now her hands slide up to her shoulders, and she performs something that looks a lot like circus acrobatics to me, but it’s one of those things girls can do blindfolded. She tugs one slim bra strap down her right arm and off. The other slides down her left arm. Then she slips her hands under her apron again and tells me to close my eyes. Dutifully, I oblige.

  Fifteen seconds later, she says, “Open them.”

  When I do, the white tank is pooled on the floor, and she holds up a lacy white bra, letting it dangle from her index finger. The apron top still covers her. “Is this what you wanted?”

  “That is exactly what I wanted.”

  I take the bra, toss it into the other room, and grab her hips. I lift her up on the counter and drink in the view.

  Skirt, heels, and apron. Her breasts are barely covered, and for a man obsessed with breasts, you’d think I’d be fondling them right now. But I’m also not twelve. I want to savor the view. I want to admire my girl. I want to experience every fucking glorious second of this night, imprint it all on my brain, feed every memory cell I have.

  I reach around her neck and tug at the apron tie. Her breath catches, and she trembles. A shudder runs through her body.

  It gives me pause. “You okay?” I ask, because I can’t not. “Are you cold?”

  “No, I’m good. Just very, very good,” she says, tipping up her chin. Her eyes meet mine, and in a flash I see so much vulnerability, so much longing in them, it nearly knocks me to my knees. It almost makes me want to spill my whole heart to her, to tell her what I realized at Max’s garage. But if there’s a recipe for killing a friendship, that’s it, right there. When you add love to the mix—when you openly declare it—you might as well say good-bye to the friendship. We can be friends and we can have benefits, but anything more is playing with fire. I know this, and she surely does, too.

  Tonight, we’re lovers.

  That’s what I zone in on as I undo the apron tie.

  The knot loosens. The straps slide. The fabric ties fall down her chest.

  Dear God, she’s gorgeous. Her breasts are as magnificent as I imagined. Soft, creamy, gorgeous globes with rosy nipples, tipped up. I bend to her chest, draw one delicious peak into my mouth, and suck.

  “Oh God,” she moans, and her hands grab the back of my head, clutching me tight.

  Just when I think a moment can’t be more perfect, it proves me wrong.

  This is beyond compare.

  I cup the other breast in my left hand, squeezing, then pinching her nipple as I suck. A throaty groan meets my ears, then an anguished “please,” chased by a breathy “God, that’s so good.”

  Yes, it’s so good. It’s so fucking good. It’s absolutely fucking amazingly exquisite to have my face buried between Josie’s tits. I could spend the next day, or week, or month here. In fact, when Mercy comes looking for me because I missed my next several shifts, they’ll find me squirreled away in the land of absolute bliss.

  Here.

  I make no apologies for my obsession. I don’t consider this a guilty pleasure, either, because I don’t feel a shred of guilt about something that drives both of us crazy. Judging from the way her fingers are locked around my skull, Josie loves the attention I’m lavishing on her chest as much as I love giving it. Her breath comes fast, and her hips wriggle on the counter as I lick and suck and kiss her breasts. She moans and sighs and murmurs.

  At some point, maybe in the next century, I wrestle myself away and meet her gaze. I don’t let go of these beauties, though. I fondle them as I look at her, all flushed and sexy.

  “Jesus Christ, Josie,” I say, just in awe of her. Everything. How she looks at me. How her lips fall open. How her eyes are guileless. The way she inches closer to me.

  “I’m in love with—” I catch myself before I screw things up
with her. “Your tits. They’re fucking perfect. I hope you don’t mind my adoration of them.” I flash her a lopsided grin.

  She laughs. “I don’t mind it at all, and I’ll give you free rein with them if you do something for me.”

  “Name it.”

  She brings her hand to my chin, pulls me close, and then dusts kisses along my jawline that drive me insane. My dick is knocking on the door of my jeans, begging to be free.

  She finds my ear and whispers, “I’m dying for you to go down on me, but I want you to fuck me more.”

  I groan. “That’s so fucking sexy what you just said.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  I adopt a frown. “Why can’t I have both?”

  She runs her finger over my bottom lip. “You can. But right now,” she says, wriggling closer, “I need you inside me.”

  And that’s it.

  Done.

  Ready.

  The woman has asked, and the woman shall receive. I push up her skirt to her waist, shaking my head. “I should be devouring your pussy right now. You distracted me with your perfect tits, so I had no time to go down on you. And then, what do you do to me? You ask me to fuck you. Which is basically the hottest thing in the entire universe.”

  She laughs. “I like asking for what I want. It turns me on.”

  I slide my hands under her skirt. “I like it, too, knowing what you want. And I love when you ask. Though, I can also tell . . .”

  My eyes roam to her legs, to that decadent land at the apex of her thighs. She’s soaked. Her panties are so wet, it’s nearly criminal. And I’m a cocky bastard because pride surges in me. I did this—I got her this turned on. I love that she’s so aroused from the way we kiss and touch and grope that she’s soaked through. I drag a finger across the wet panel, and she shudders against me.

  As I slide off her panties, she grabs the hem of my T-shirt and yanks it over my head. Then her hands are on my jeans, tugging at the button.

  “Damn, woman.”

  “I want you,” she says, firmly. “I want you now.”

  “Trust me, baby. You’re going to have me. And I’m going to make it so fucking good for you. But first we need this.” I dip my hand to my back pocket, grab my wallet, and take out a condom. “Hope you don’t think I’m a cheapskate, but I got it at work.”

  She laughs. “One of the perks of working at a hospital.” She wraps her arms around my neck and tugs me close. Her eyes are intense. “Say you got it today.”

  “I absolutely fucking did,” I whisper. “Because all day long I’ve been thinking about how much I want to fuck you.”

  “Me, too. So much.” Her hands go lower and she pushes my jeans over my ass, freeing my dick.

  “Put it on me, baby. I know you want to.”

  “Oh God, I do,” she says, panting hard. “I want to touch you so badly.”

  I’m not sure how I knew she’d be game to wrap me up, but I just did. I’m learning her quickly. Figuring her out. I open the condom wrapper and hand it to her.

  As she takes it out, I grab my cock in my hand and rub.

  It’s like an injection of lust straight into Josie. “Oh God,” she moans, her pitch rising as she stares at me. “Stop. You’re making me crazy.”

  “Then it’s working.” Because crazy is how I want her. Insane with lust. And I don’t stop. I fist my hand around my dick, and stroke down to the head, squeezing. Her breath catches, and she groans. Her mouth falls open.

  She watches me with wild abandon. Already, I’m thinking of all the things I want to do with her, all the ways I want to fuck her. All the pleasure I want to give her.

  She bites the corner of her lip as she removes the condom, then she wraps a hand around my dick and joins in. That desperation in her eyes is replaced by excitement, by some kind of thrill as she holds my cock and I let go.

  “Watch me,” she says.

  And I do, staring at her pretty hands as she slides the protection over my cock, pinching the tip of the latex, making sure it’s perfect. And now I’m the one on fire.

  Or maybe we both are.

  I grab her hips, pull her to the edge of the counter, and rub the tip against her sweet, slippery pussy.

  She moans my name. It sounds like a dirty, filthy word from her lips. She says it like it has five syllables, and she wants to be fucked by every single one.

  I push in.

  “Holy fuck,” I groan, because she feels so good.

  “I know,” she murmurs, and I fucking love that we’re on the same page.

  Her wetness welcomes me, and it is paradise inside Josie. She’s snug, hot, and wet, and she clenches tightly around me as I fill her. Her hands slide up my chest and she grips my shoulders. I brace one hand on the counter, the other on her hip as I nestle deep inside her.

  I thrust and she cries out.

  I groan as I move inside her, taking my time at first, then I fuck her on the kitchen counter. Because I can’t wait. Sure, I can wait to go down on her. Yes, I can wait to carry her to the bedroom. I can even wait for dinner. But I can’t wait for the breathtaking, phenomenal feeling of sliding in and out of this woman. This gorgeous, wonderful, sensual, bold woman. This sexual creature who wants me the same damn way I want her. Her hands curl tightly over my shoulders, and she grinds against me.

  For a while, we’re nothing but murmurs and sighs, moans and groans, and the slap of flesh against flesh. We become a carnal thing, a man and a woman hungry with desire, each consuming the other.

  Then she grabs my face, grips me tight, and parts her lips. “Take me there,” she says, her voice smoky and sexy, and pure vulnerability, too, as if she’s spoken her greatest, deepest wish.

  I push in deeper, reaching the edge of her, then I stop and stare into her eyes. I see everything that’s seemingly struck me out of the blue, but now I’m sure has been there all along if I’d stopped to notice.

  She’s the woman for me.

  She’s the one I want.

  I’m fucking my friend.

  I’m screwing my roommate.

  And more than that, I’m also making love to the woman I’m falling in love with.

  But the more I think about the insanity and foolishness of me right now, the more I risk telling her everything. The more I’ll ruin us.

  Besides, right now I have one job. To take her there.

  “I will, baby, I will,” I say, then thread my fingers in her hair and bring my mouth to her ear as I fuck her hard and deep. She hooks her legs around my ass and pulls me tighter. I bury myself in her, fucking and thrusting until she screams so loudly that I know she’s on the cusp.

  Then, she tells me. Because that’s what she does. She’s an announcer.

  I’m so close.

  Keep fucking.

  Just like that.

  Like I’d stop.

  She rocks up into me as if she’s finding the perfect friction on my shaft, and soon she discovers it. She uncovers her pleasure, and an orgasm seems to blast through her. She trembles from head to toe. She shudders as she squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m coming,” she whispers in the faintest, most desperate whisper.

  Then a louder one. “Oh God, I’m coming.”

  Then an ear-splitting shout that rattles loose my own climax. It seizes me, crashing into me with the force of a storm, ripping through my body as I fuck her through my release, grunting her name, groaning barely coherent words. And as pleasure keeps rolling through me, I have to bite my tongue so I don’t say anything more. So I don’t tell her it’s never been this good. And it’s not just a scientific kind of good. It’s a whole new level. One I fear I’m already becoming dangerously addicted to.

  But I don’t want to say that out loud yet, or ever. If I do, I could lose her, and that’s a risk I just won’t take.

  Instead, we eat pizza.

  22

  I fold a slice and take another mouth-watering bite. After I chew, I roll my eyes in absolute appreciation of Josie’s talents. “I was wrong all t
he other times. This is now the best thing you’ve ever made.”

  She laughs. “You said it’s what you missed most in Africa.”

  “Oh, I definitely missed pizza with a ferocity.”

  “Say the word, and I’ll make you a cherry pie, too,” she says. When I give her a naughty wink, she holds up a hand. “I meant the kind with fruit in it.”

  “You do know there’s no way for pie to sound anything but dirty?”

  We’re parked on the couch, half-dressed, after—no hyperbole—the best sex of my life. She fastened the apron again, and wears the cherry-patterned wrap and heels. She said she thought I’d get a kick out of her “post-sex” outfit. She was right. As for me, I’m in jeans.

  “I do know that,” she says, then stretches across the couch to ruffle my hair.

  The gesture both warms my heart and makes me think. Josie’s always been a toucher, so it’s not out of place. But it feels so . . . couple-y. So boyfriend-girlfriend. There’s a part of me that desperately wants that with her. That wants to just crack open my heart and tell her how I feel.

  Because inside, I’m on cloud nine. I’m a happy motherfucker, just kicking back, eating pizza with the best girl I know. Our physical connection is mind-bogglingly good. We get along like two peas in a pod. She’s been my friend forever. Hell, we’re about to play a game of Scrabble before we go for round two.

  But there’s the rub.

  Because all this floating on a cloud of complete and utter dirty, sexy, fantastic happiness is just smoke and mirrors. It’s a trick designed flawlessly by the human body. Why, oh fucking why, does falling for someone have to be such a rush? Such a high?

  But I know the answer.

  There’s a reason for the release of those endorphins. Chemicals are in our system so falling in love will make us procreate. This rampant contentment swirling inside me is all just basic survival-of-the-species shit. It’s an illusion of brain chemistry.

  And as long as I keep my head on straight, I can’t be fooled by risky feelings.

  Even though a part of me wants to throw caution to the wind, to listen to this hammering in my chest, to just say, “Hey, it’s you and me, let’s defy the odds.” Fucking, eating pizza, and playing Scrabble.