When Sparks Fly

by Helena Hunting

  “Oh, yes please.” I shift, giving him better access.

  “Definitely just a fluke since it doesn’t seem like you’re enjoying this much.” He bites my earlobe on a low chuckle.

  “Stop talking smack. Your ego is going to ruin this for me.” I grab the back of his neck and twist my head until our lips meet.

  We tilt our heads, mouths opening to accept each other. Every sensation is heightened, my awareness magnified. This is about so much more than physical gratification, at least for me.

  Maybe I should have expected this level of connection. In a lot of ways it makes sense since we know each other so well, but the intensity of the emotion isn’t something I anticipated. Want and need take over. I pull him closer and lift my hips, seeking more of his touch, wanting more pressure.

  “Did you think about me today? About how good I made you feel?” he whispers against my lips as his fingers tease and explore.

  “Deck.” I try to pull his mouth back to mine, but he shakes his head.

  “Don’t wanna admit it? Think it’s gonna go to my head?”

  I groan in frustration and at his soft touch.

  His grin is devilish and his eyes darken, but under that lurks another emotion that I recognize as vulnerability. “Just tell me, Ave, that’s all I want.”

  “Yes. I thought about you all day.” About how good he makes me feel, about how I want more of this closeness, about how I can see the possibility of how good we can be together.

  “Me too.” His mouth crashes down on mine, and he pushes me toward the shimmering bliss of an orgasm.

  When I can feel myself tipping over the edge, he tears his mouth from mine and his hand disappears from between my thighs. I groan my displeasure and try to pull him back, at least until he drops to his knees on the floor, hitches my leg over his shoulder and brings me to orgasm, with his mouth this time.

  I shudder when he licks my sensitive skin and laugh when he murmurs, “Good to know it wasn’t a fluke.”

  18

  ADVENTURES IN AVERY-SITTING

  DECLAN

  “We’re going out.” I toss one of Avery’s bras into her lap, along with a pair of sweats, an oversized shirt, and a hoodie. It’s a crisp fall day, the sun is shining, and if I don’t get her out of the house, I’m going to try to get her out of her clothes.

  “Huh?”

  “Out. You and me. We’re going to do something fun.”

  “Fun?” she parrots.

  “Yes. Fun. Now get dressed.” I turn around and head back down the hall.

  “I think it would be more fun if you helped me get dressed!” she calls out.

  “That kind of fun comes later!” I shout back. She’s right, it would be a lot more fun. But over the past few days, there’s been a lot of orgasms and not a lot else happening in this condo. I need to get some fresh air and some perspective, and my face and fingers out of Avery’s sweet spot. So I planned an afternoon of activities, the kind that will hopefully wear us both out so I can rein my freaking hormones in.

  I change into jeans and a sweatshirt. Check my messages to make sure I haven’t missed anything important and return to the living room, where I find Avery sitting on the couch. Thankfully she’s dressed. She’s also pouting. “What if I don’t want to do something fun?”

  “Trust me, you do.” I hold out a hand and wait for her to take it so I can pull her up and pass her the crutch. “Besides, weren’t you complaining about not having enough material for your recovery journal? You sitting on the couch doing crosswords isn’t exactly riveting, so I thought a change of scenery would help. And there’s ice cream at the end.”

  Avery’s eyes light up. “Ooh, what kind of ice cream?”

  “Whatever kind you want.”

  Avery is the only person I know who will willingly eat ice cream in the dead of winter. It doesn’t matter that it’s October, or that her teeth will likely be chattering by the time she’s done with her cone. Her love of ice cream supersedes any and all weather conditions.

  Avery could probably manage to get into the front of my SUV if we moved the passenger seat as far back as possible, but she’s still super nervous about driving anywhere, so the back seat it is for now.

  I pass her my phone. “Why don’t you pick a playlist?”

  “How far are we going?” The hint of panic isn’t unexpected.

  “Not far, I promise.” I planned out today’s activities so we’re in the car for short periods of time, but long enough to push Avery out of her comfort zone a little. Anything I can do to distract her should make her feel better about the whole thing.

  Avery scrolls through my music. “Wait, you have a playlist with my name on it?”

  “Well yeah, for when we go on road trips and stuff. That way we don’t have to change stations every ten minutes because there’s a song you don’t approve of on the radio, or commercials.”

  Avery cues up the playlist and keeps on scrolling. In the past she used to keep herself entertained by going through my contact list. I always put notes beside the women who rotated in and out of my life, most of them for very brief periods of time. Some of them had names like the Screamer, the Yodeler, the Bendy Yogi, the Ass Slapper. It used to be funny, and now the thought of her going through that list is embarrassing. “What’re you doing?”

  “Just checking out your other playlists and your IG account. Based on the number of pictures you have of pizza and wings from Tony’s, you could be a paid sponsor.”

  “If it gets me free pizza out of the deal, I’d be down for a sponsorship.”

  I make a right and pull into the parking lot of our first stop for today.

  “Mini putt?” Avery sounds somewhat skeptical. She holds up her arm and taps her casted leg. “How is that going to work?”

  “I’m here to be your extra set of hands.” I wave mine in the air and waggle my brows. “But they’re for putting purposes only until we get home.”

  Avery side-eyes me. “I better get an orgasm for every hole in one I manage.”

  “I can definitely get on board with that.”

  I cut the engine and hop out of the driver’s seat so I can help her get out of the SUV. She doesn’t need much in the way of assistance anymore. And her arm is almost healed now, so she can at least use the cast to brace herself, if nothing else.

  I pay for two rounds of mini putt, and we join a few families with young kids on the putting green. I take a couple of pictures of Avery trying to set up her ball, and then a video of her working out the logistics of putting while balanced on one leg and relying on her nondominant hand. “And up next is world-class putter Avery Spark. Avery is facing some unique challenges and is currently using a new move called the flamingo putt. Trademarking that baby now because I’m positive it’s going to be the mini putt move of the century.”

  She looks half-annoyed, half-amused. “Is the commentary necessary?”

  “It absolutely is, Miss Spark. How else will the world be able to identify the magic that is the flamingo if we don’t capture it on film? You are witnessing history right here, the flamingo, trademarked.”

  Avery shakes her head but focuses on the ball, expression turning serious as she swings a couple of times. Avery has always been super competitive, and she hates losing. It’s why I love playing on the same team with her.

  She hits the ball down the strip of turf, and it circles the hole once, nearly jumps out, but manages to circle again before it falls in.

  “Hole in one on the first try, ladies and gentlemen! If ever there was a lesson to be learned here, it’s that Avery Spark can overcome any obstacle!” I end the video and hand Avery the crutch.

  “That’s orgasm number one. And don’t think I won’t keep a running tally.” She smirks.

  “I absolutely expect you to cash in on every single one of those.” I kiss the end of her nose, then look around, remembering that we’re in a public place.

  Avery doesn’t seem to notice or care. “Can I see the video?�
� she asks as we move to the next hole and I set up my ball since I’m up first.

  “Sure.” I pass her my phone and tee up. It takes me three shots before I land the ball in the hole, but I don’t really care. All I want is to give Avery a reason to smile.

  We spend the next hour running through the course. After about seven holes Avery’s game starts to suffer, likely because it takes a lot of physical energy for her to maintain her balance, and while she’s been using her crutch more and more, and doing all the doctor recommended exercises, she’s still spent the past month doing more sitting and lying down than moving around.

  She’s determined, though, and we finish the eighteenth hole, although it takes her seven shots to get the ball in. On the way home we stop for ice cream—as promised—and by the time we get up to the condo, she’s bagged and ends up passing out on the couch.

  By ten she’s still sawing logs, so I carry her to bed and leave a snack for her, in case she wakes up hungry.

  * * *

  Two days later I knock on Avery’s door at 10 a.m. She’s usually up by now, and while I’ve been a regular provider of the orgasms as of late, I still respect her privacy.

  “I’m decent; you can come in,” she calls out.

  I throw the door open. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”

  She’s sitting up in bed, hair a mess, laptop settled on her lap pad, three chocolate-covered granola bar wrappers strewn across her comforter. There’s a smear of chocolate on her right cheek.

  “Breakfast of champions, I see.”

  “They were in my nightstand and only one month expired. Getting out of bed was far too much work, and I already have enough of that to deal with so I figured, what harm could it do?” She covers her mouth and stifles a yawn.

  “Have you had a coffee yet?” I nod to the mug on the nightstand.

  I know the answer to that is no because I’ve been sitting at the dining room table since seven, and she has yet to make an appearance. She picks up the mug—it’s from yesterday—and brings it to her lips. She tips it back and makes a face as she sets it down.

  “How about this? I will get you a beautiful, fresh, not cold and twenty-four-hours’-old coffee, if you finish whatever you’re doing and get dressed.”

  She groans and rolls her eyes like a teenager. “What do you have planned now? My legs still ache from mini putt.”

  “Today will be way more chill. And we’ll bring the chair along. Get your ass out of bed so we can make some IG-worthy videos. The last one has like five thousand likes and hundreds of comments.”

  “Really? Last I checked, it had one thousand likes.”

  “When was that? Two hours after you posted? Get your ass in gear. We have videos to make.”

  Less than half an hour later I find a parking spot in one of the local parks that’s about a ten-minute drive away. My goal is to get Avery comfortable with car rides so that by the time she’s ready to get behind the wheel, she doesn’t have a full-on panic attack.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “We’re going to chill and enjoy some nature.” I pull the wheelchair out of the SUV and set it up for her.

  She looks like she wants to argue for a moment but drops into it with a sigh. “Are you trying for an inspirational video scene with this?”

  I’m aware she’s still sore from mini putt. I’m also aware she’s annoyed that mini putt makes her this sore. But her body has been through hell, so my plan is to slowly and carefully ease her back into physical activity, one outing at a time. Today it’s the park.

  I bring along her crutch because I know she’s going to want to walk on her own without me pushing her around. It never occurred to me before her accident how hard it must be to manage with a wheelchair. Even when it’s temporary, it’s an entire adjustment of her daily life. Doorways can be too narrow, turns too tight, hills too steep. Everything requires more planning and time.

  So being out here in the open is a good place to feel less confined by her restrictions and give her a taste of what she’s going to get back once she’s healed.

  I wheel her over to the baseball diamonds, where we would sometimes go to run bases or toss balls to each other when we first moved to Colorado Springs. There’s a kid’s team practicing, and in true Avery form, she shouts her praise every time one of the kids makes contact with a ball.

  I take some videos of her for her journal. Once the kids vacate the diamond, I wheel her to the pitcher’s mound.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’re gonna pitch, I’m gonna hit, and we’ll see how it goes.” I toss her a whiffle ball.

  She snatches it out of the air. “I guess it’s a good thing I can’t really hurt you with this thing, because I doubt I have the best aim with this arm.”

  “We’ll see about that. You said you were going to suck at mini putt, and you kicked my ass for the first nine holes.”

  “Yeah, but I circled the drain in the last nine.”

  “Because you were tired. Stop making excuses and start pitching.” I pick up a bat, tap the home plate, and settle into a batter stance. If there’s a sport, Avery’s played it at least once. Baseball might not be her favorite team sport to play, but it doesn’t mean she’s not good at it.

  Her first toss is a little low, but I still manage to hit it, sending it out into left field. She pitches half a dozen balls, her aim improving with each throw. When we run out of balls, I jog out onto the field and collect them, and when I return, Avery has moved from the pitcher’s mound to home plate, which is what I was hoping for.

  She pushes up out of her chair, arm outstretched to help her find her balance.

  “You want your crutch to start?” I drop the balls at the pitcher’s mound and jog over to her.

  “Might be a good idea.” She puts a hand on my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her waist as she hops twice, finding her balance. Even once she’s steady, neither of us lets go right away.

  “Thank you for this.”

  “Anything for you. You know that.” I lean in and give her a quick peck on the cheek.

  Once she’s steady, I pass the crutch to her and wait for her to get situated before I hand her the bat. When I’m confident she has her balance, I jog back to the pitcher’s mound to set up the camera again before I start tossing balls. She misses the first one and nearly loses her crutch, but after a couple more swings and some corrections on my part, we finally get a rhythm going. Each hit is stronger than the last, and by the time we get to the last few balls, she’s back to balancing on one foot and hitting whiffle balls into the thicket of trees at the edge of the field.

  “I feel like you’re doing that on purpose,” I call to her as I pick up the final ball and toss it a couple of times before I wind up.

  “My aim is off.” She raises the bat and gets into position.

  This time when I throw the ball, I add a little curve and, as expected, she hits it right where the last four balls have gone—into the trees.

  While I round up the whiffle balls, I hand Avery my phone so she can post some video clips. It takes me nearly twenty minutes to find all the balls this time.

  “Are we going another round?” she asks when I finally jog back with the last one.

  I check the time. “We should probably head back since the guys are supposed to be over in a couple of hours, and the last thing I want is you passing out before dinner again.”

  19

  LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS

  DECLAN

  “Can you please stop smirking?” Avery elbows me in the side while blushing.

  “I wasn’t smirking.” I rub a hand over my mouth to hide my smile.

  “You one hundred percent were. You might as well wear a shirt that reads ‘I’m a master at multiple orgasms.’” If she could prop a fist on her hip she would, but since she’s standing in the kitchen with her crutch under her arm, balanced on her good foot, all she can manage to do is glare.

  “I wouldn’t say I’m a master, mo
re like extremely proficient.”

  She tries to jab me in the side of the thigh with her crutch, but I block it and nearly set her off balance. I grab her around the waist to help steady her, then pull her in close. I nuzzle into her neck, smiling even wider when she melts against me.

  I’ve always been aware of Avery’s hotness level, but after Sam demolished her heart, I compartmentalized that knowledge and filed it away under fantasies never to indulge in. She’s my best friend, and I care about her just as much, if not more, than my family. Probably more, actually, since my parents are pretty huge assholes. I’m very glad I’m an only child and don’t have any siblings who are also as fucked up about relationships as I am.

  And that right there is another reason I shouldn’t have taken this as far as I have, but my logic shorted out. Maybe I should have stopped after that first time, or the second, or third, or fourth. But I can’t deny her, and I honestly don’t want to.

  Everything about this situation with Avery is different. And I find myself wanting things I’m not sure I’m capable of handling. Like monogamy and stability and something real.

  I kiss my way up the side of her neck. “You’re pretty wound up, Ave, maybe I need to calm you down before the guys get here.”

  “They’re supposed to be here in less than ten minutes.”

  “I bet I can get you off in five. Let me try.” I slide my fingers under the hem of her shorts. She’s not wearing underwear.

  “Do not start something you can’t finish, Declan. I have no interest in spending the next four hours being all hot and bothered because you gave me the girl equivalent of blue balls.”

  “Blue balls are physically painful.” I would know, I suffered through them until Avery put her foot down and insisted this was not a one-way street. That happened three days into whatever it is we’re doing. She decided if she was getting off I should be too. And then she cited that it would be good for her forearm strength. It was hard to argue her point.

  “And so is being left hanging halfway to an orgasm, at least for me. You seriously need to rein it in if you don’t want the guys to figure out that you’re taking a very involved, hands-on approach to tending to my every need.”