The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel
Page 7
7
Nick
* * *
A few days later, I’m eating cheeseburgers with Dempsey in her backyard while Fiona has found herself a strip of sunshine and is lying on her back, letting her belly get warm. She’s the cutest.
And Dempsey is also cute…in a really different way. Some juices from the burger she’s noshing on have dripped down her hand and instead of using a napkin or wiping it on her pants, she licks it off. Fucking licks it and the dart of her tongue gives me ideas.
We totally made out last time, and it was awesome. It’s been a long time since I made out with a girl and stopped it there. And I sure as hell rubbed one out when I stopped at home on the way to Teague’s because Dempsey is hot as hell and having her next to me, her body pressed to mine, her mouth and her tongue and…fuck yeah, I jerked off to thoughts of her.
She gave me a kiss, a quick one, when Fi and I showed up, but nothing since. I don’t think it’s that she’s not interested anymore because she’s been smiley and flirty, and I like to think I can tell the difference between a woman who’s just being nice and one who wants to ride the Nick train. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a train. Like a subway, yeah, but a real train? Like Amtrak or whatever? When we’ve toured in Europe, we’ve always had private planes or tour buses, but I hear their trains are good.
Could someone with agoraphobia live on a train? Or like a houseboat? Or, dude, a house but like the one in Up where there’s a shit ton of balloons and the house floats away? Because then, you wouldn’t have to leave your house but you could still go places. I guess you’d still be inside once you got there, though. Or would that still be scary? Scary’s probably not the right word. Terrifying? Paralyzing? I’ve never thought about it before, but now I do. I could ask Dempsey, but I don’t want her to think I’m making fun of her or trying to find some kind of loophole in her whole “I don’t leave my property” thing. Most days I wouldn’t have the presence of mind to stop myself from asking, but today I do.
Now she’s looking at me, though, her eyes kinda narrowed like she’s thinking deep thoughts. I feel like she probably does that a lot instead of just letting everything that’s going through her head drop out of her mouth like I do. Except I’m eating, and while I sometimes forget, I do try to be good about not talking with my mouth full. Can’t tell you how many times I got cuffed upside the head for that one as a kid.
“What?” It comes out kinda muffled because my mouth is still half-full of burger, but Dempsey doesn’t seem to mind, just keeps staring until her eyes light up.
“You’re in License to Game.”
Yes. Which, I mean, I was pretty sure she knew from doing the financial literacy thing at the high school. But maybe not? Or maybe she didn’t realize exactly how big of a deal we are? She definitely doesn’t treat me like I’m super-famous. No fawning over me or asking if I can do stuff for her. No trying to get in my pants to make a notch on her star-fucker belt. But if she’s for realsies just realizing how famous I am? Then maybe I’ve got her because even shut-ins get turned on by rock stars, right?
So I put on my star-quality smile, which Benji says makes me look like a Disney villain—but he can shut the fuck up, what the hell does he know anyway. I have watched far more Disney movies than he ever did because of my younger siblings. Still like to watch them sometimes because they’re awesome. Big Hero 6 is my favorite, because robots and costumes and superheroes and shit. Also I feel a certain kinship with Fred. Except for the whole loaded parents thing. Are they going to make a sequel? Maybe I could have a cameo. Sometimes Stan can pull strings like that for us, even if he rolls his eyes while he does it. But seriously. I like all the attention and it’s rare that I get sick of it, but the other guys don’t have as much of a tolerance for people all up in their grills so much of the time.
But it’s a cartoon, so I can’t just walk by as an extra or something. Maybe a voiceover? I don’t know how that works. I’ll text Stan. But maybe later, because Dempsey’s got this hero worship gleam in her eye. It would kinda suck if she’s got a thing for Zane or Teague and would rather fuck them than me, but they’re taken, so I’ll just have to do. Whatever, wouldn’t be the first time I wasn’t someone’s top choice, but I showed them a good time anyway.
Dempsey rolls her lips between her teeth, and she dips her chin like all of a sudden she’s gotten shy. “If you’re in License to Game, you must know Rowan Andrews.”
“Of course I—what? Rowan?” I mean, yeah. We’ve hung out because she’s Zane’s girlfriend. She also happens to also be a world-class luger. Like, Snow and Ice Games medal-winning luger, which is way cool, but…
Dempsey’s eyes get real wide, and her mouth drops open before she bites her lip. “Do you think you could introduce me?”
To Rowan? Yeah, she’s a cool girl, but of all the people I know, this is who Dempsey wants an intro to? For reals?
“I’m besties with some of the most famous dudes on the planet, have an in with most of the top acts in the music biz and half of Hollywood, and you want to meet Sled Girl? What the hell?”
Dempsey crosses her arms and gives me a withering look. I feel like I’m about to get feministed, because yeah, that was a dick thing to say and I don’t mean to make it seem like Rowan isn’t a big deal. She totes is. And if I hadn’t known that before, I do now because Zane keeps us all up-to-date on the standings and the races and all that. Part of a wall in Benji’s garage is dedicated to Rowan’s clippings and shit, and we watch her races, even if we have to get up at fucking bizarre hours and subscribe to some weird-ass sports channels or websites to do it. Thank god for the internets, amirite?
Oh, yeah, I am in for it. Dempsey cocks a vicious eyebrow. “Rowan Andrews is a phenomenal athlete. She could kick your ass. She can smoke 99.9999 percent of the population on a luge track. Her powers of concentration and mental fortitude are out of control. And she seems so cool, like someone you could hang out with if she wasn’t busy training. But she’s probably always training. Is she?”
I’m used to wowing people with my own fame or my band’s, but I can work with Rowan’s. I shrug, like it’s no big. Which it isn’t really, because Rowan and I are pals. We hang out, she gives good hugs. She beat the hell out of me when I challenged her to arm wrestle. It’s cool.
“Nah. She came out to visit Zane a couple of weeks ago, and I smoked her at Super Mario. We split a bag of Cheetos.”
“Oh my god.” Dempsey doesn’t really seem like the squealing type, and yet here she is, basically swooning over my buddy’s girl. “Seriously, could you introduce me? Or would she think it was too weird to meet someone over Skype? Some people do. Or does she need some financial advice? Or if she’s too busy, do you think you could just get her to sign something for me? I’m such a huge fan.”
“Uh, yeah, I’ll see what I can do. Want me to call her right now? I could call her right now.”
“Oh my god, no. I look terrible. I’d need some warning.”
That makes me laugh. “So you look good enough to have me over and hang out, but not hot enough for a call with Rowan? Is that what you’re trying to say? Should I be insulted? I mean, I know the last time I was here, we said we were friends, but I was kind of hoping we might also have the kind of relationship where you want to make out? Or, like, more than that?”
Dempsey covers her face with her hands, and a laugh escapes from between her fingers. When she puts her hands down, her cheeks are pink, and she’s so freaking cute. “Oh my god, that was so rude. I’m sorry. And no, I didn’t mean that. I…definitely spent more time in front of the mirror this morning than usual. Because…”
She gets up from her chair and takes a few steps over to me, taking the plate out of my lap and replacing it with—oh, Christ—herself. It shouldn’t surprise me after last time, how she took control of the situation and asked for what she wanted and, once I gave the okay, fucking took it, but still, it rocks me back that she can go from zero to sitting in my fucking lap and loo
ks like she aims to take things even further than that. Yeah, Dempsey’s ass is now nestled nicely against my crotch, and I put my feet down from the ottoman they’ve been resting on, the better to cuddle her.
Looping her arms around my neck, she looks down at me, the side of her mouth tipping into a smile.
“Yeah, I think making out is good.”
Then she’s kissing me, her mouth tasting like Corona and ketchup and pickles, and maybe that wouldn’t be sexy to other people, but I like the salty tang of the potato chips she ate. And the way she slips her tongue into my mouth to maybe taste me, too.
I find her hips with my hands and grasp her, hold onto her while we kiss and then skim a palm down her thigh until my fingers graze the back of her knee, and she squeaks and then lets out a sweet little mewl that turns into kind of a moan. So she likes that. Noted.
Pretty soon she’s tugging at my shirt, and we break apart long enough for her to strip it off, and then her hands are wandering all over my arms and shoulders and chest, and it feels so fucking good. Her hands are warm and greedy, her touch more rough than soft, as though she wants me so bad she can’t possibly get her fill. She breaks off with a gasp like she wasn’t getting enough oxygen and then looks at me, still touching me all over.
“When did you get these? You haven’t had them for long.”
Right. My tats. It’s true, but…
“How do you know?”
Aw, man, I love making Dempsey blush. I tickle her waist and demand, “Seriously, how do you know? Are you secretly a Gamer and you never told me? You’re not recording all this for fan sites or whatever, right?”
She shakes her head. “Uh, no. Definitely not. Broadcasting my uncensored life would be a fucking nightmare. I don’t mind doing video chats most of the time because they feel pretty safe, but only if I’m expecting them, you know? And I know that these”—she runs a fingertip down my pec, following the curve of one of the vines on my chest and making me shiver in the process—“are new because I may have looked up some pictures when you were giving your part of the talk at Burnett. I was curious about you because you made me laugh. And these don’t show up in most of them.”
“Yeah. I got them starting, like, a year and a half ago? It was in our LtG contract that none of us would get tats because you know, wholesome boy band image and all that, but once everything started splintering apart, I decided fuck it. What were they going to do, break up the band? The good part about it I guess was that it gave me time to think—usually I would’ve just gone out one night, gotten fucked up, and probably got fucking life-sized Daffy Duck from my shoulders to my ass or whatever. But since I couldn’t, I had to think about what I’d actually like and could keep forever without feeling like a dick.”
“And, uh, how far do they go?”
Her fingers trace the knotwork at my waistband, and I reply with a sharp inhale and squeezing shut my eyes. Dempsey is going to kill me. And to be honest, it doesn’t seem like the worst way to go.
“Is this like a real question or a hypothetical question so you can get in my pants? I’m cool either way. I just want to know because—”
Dempsey shifts more toward my knees, and her deft fingers unsnap my jeans and make quick work of my zipper before sliding into my shorts. Oh, hell.
Dempsey
* * *
Nick is hard, oh yes, he is. I mean, I’d hope so given that he’s a young guy—younger than me by six years, thanks IMDB—and he hit on me and not the other way around, but people’s bodies work all sorts of different ways. Still, I like that he’s got a hard-on for me. And yeah, with a quick peek I can tell his tattoo goes all the way down, making an arch over the base of his erection. I’d think that would hurt, but I’m not going to ask him about that right now. No, I’ll save that for later, maybe for pillow talk. Because at this second, my mouth is watering and not for more food from the grill. Even though it was good because I know how to flip a burger.
No, I would very much like to take Nick’s cock in my mouth. I used to hate giving guys blowjobs when I was young. Too young, which was part of the problem. An unfortunate side effect of being a girl-next-door sex symbol. Some men would conflate me with my character and act like they were my dad…at best. Not that the paternalistic, you-shouldn’t-leave-the-house-looking-like-that bullshit wasn’t a pain in my ass. It was. But it was better than other guys who would project their jerk-off fantasies about what I was “really” like onto me and then behave accordingly. Or worse.
A lot of them were bossy and inconsiderate. Frankly, calling them inconsiderate is generous. It was more like they knew exactly what they were doing and were getting off on having power over me. Or that face-fucking America’s teen sweetheart made them some kind of big man. It got to the point that a guy simply looking at me was enough to start my palms sweating, my breath catching, my stomach rioting. It made relationships fraught, and sex a live wire. That was part of what started to make leaving the house feel like taking my life and my sanity in my hands. Out there were people who wanted to get their hands on—or their dicks in—Lauren Dempsey no matter how she—I—felt about it.
Even though I totally get how someone else could think it was hot to hand themselves over and be dominated, that’s never been my thing. It certainly isn’t a possibility anymore given my experiences, even if it could’ve been. Giving up power in that situation would be like mashing all my panic buttons.
As things are, I like to have control over my lovers. To dictate what will happen, when and where it will happen, and how. Which is especially straightforward when I’m paying them. Once I had the ability to orchestrate my encounters precisely how I wanted, I got to rediscover all sorts of things I thought I didn’t like. Reframed, acts that I’d found repugnant could be enjoyable. Because I said they were okay. Because I allowed it or, in some cases, demanded it. Going down on a guy is one of those things.
I stroke Nick a few times, and he buries his head in my neck, his breath coming hard and hot against my skin.
With his length still in my hand, I murmur, “Can I suck you?”
He makes a garbled choking sound, which I think is yes? But I’ve been taken advantage of far too many times to take it as such, especially since we’re brand new to each other. “Is that a yes?”
“That is a ‘fuck, yeah.’”
His muttered response makes me laugh, and I slide off his lap, grabbing a cushion to put under my knees before I hit the ground.
He looks around as if remembering we’re outside, but there’s no need for him to worry.
“I’ve got high fences, and none of my neighbors can see in. Not even from their second floors. Trust me, I’ve checked.”
“’Kay. Just didn’t want to get arrested for indecency. Again.”
That is entirely fair, and it makes me wonder, however fleetingly, exactly how many times he’s been charged with such a thing. God help his lawyers, although I’m sure they make a good living for their troubles.
On my knees, I help him shimmy out of his jeans and boxers and flip-flops. Now he’s naked in front of me, and he’s all rangy muscle and sinew and bones. Not as slim as Christian, but not gym-built like Teague or Benji. Sue me, okay, I’ve been looking at a lot of pictures of these guys in the past week.
I lightly scratch my nails over his shoulders and pecs—making sure to get his nipples so they harden into tiny points—and then score his abdomen, which makes him arch off the seat, hips bucking toward me.
“Ah, ah,” I say, pressing him back before grazing his thighs, and he huffs out a sound that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a gasp, more like he’s sucking in air and holding on for dear life. Well, Nick, this is just the beginning of the ride. Buckle up.
When I get to his knees, I use my hands to part them farther so I can settle myself in the middle and sit back on my heels. His hot, hard length is basically waving in my face, out of control, so I seize him, wrapping a fist around his girth and giving a few quick pumps that make him drop his h
ead back, close his eyes, and groan.
“How do you like it, Nick? Hard or soft?”
I demonstrate each of his choices, and he cries out, white-knuckling the arms of the chair. “Hard-ish?”
“Like this?”
He nods wildly and then licks his lips. “Yeah, like that. Exactly like that. Jesus, Demps.”
“And fast or slow?”
Another demonstration because I want him to know what he’s getting into. Another thing hiring people for sex has been good for: I’m far more comfortable talking about sex than I’d ever been before. Nick barks a laugh and writhes some more. “That depends on how fast you want me to come.”
“I think you’ll want to last long enough for me to actually get my mouth wrapped around your cock, wouldn’t you say?”
He makes his response through gritted teeth. “If you keep talking like that, I won’t last long at all.”
“Well then, we’d best hurry up.”
I have more questions to ask, but we’ll save them for another day. Because at this point, I really do think there will be another day. When’s the last time that happened? Not for a long, long time. Way longer than I’ve even had someone who I could see the potential of having a relationship with.
I’m not shy as I take Nick in my mouth, swirl my tongue around the head, and suck before taking more of him inside me. He’s a nice size: small enough that I don’t feel choked and big enough that I have something to lick with my broad tongue. With the hand that’s not holding him steady and preventing him from—purposefully or not—thrusting into my mouth, I roll his sac, squeeze and tug lightly. I can feel and hear him breathing fast and hard, and everything about this is making me wet between my thighs.