by Iris Blaire
My phone buzzes. I pull it out of my clutch.
Micah: You're lucky I signed a contract or your models would be sleeping on the street tonight.
I try to think up something clever, something that will punch him in the gut and remind him of the scum he is.
Mom interrupts my thought process. She's the first outside after my escape. The sound of her clacking heels stops as she halts in front of me and places her hands on her waist.
I sigh. "He grabbed my ass and told me to suck his dick," I say honestly.
She winces like I've just muttered the filthiest sentence imaginable, but then her eyes drift to my cleavage, and she shrugs. "Well..."
"Well what?" If this woman were anyone other than my mother, I'd tell her to go fuck herself. "You think I deserved it?"
"I think you are showing off your body in a way that tempts young men, particularly the one who thinks you are dressing for him."
Should I have expected better from her? Probably not. But that doesn't excuse the fact that she's trying to slut shame me. I want to tell her that I didn't dress like this for Micah, I dressed like this for the one man—the only man—who is allowed to grab my ass. And even if Jaime weren’t here tonight, I should still be allowed to dress like this and not have to worry about anyone grabbing me.
But I'm too late.
Mom sighs again. "I need to talk to your father." She begins to make her way back inside. "And for god's sakes, put your shoes back on."
I don't even know where my shoes are.
I pull my knees to my chest and rest my forehead on them. I nearly fall asleep like that until someone sits next to me. I look up, and Jaime's holding out two shots of tequila both rimmed with salt and garnished with a wedge of lime.
"I'd reckon this tequila's about thirty bucks a shot."
"You reckon?" When my laughter fades, I notice the sympathetic look on his face. I take the shot from him. "He isn't gay, by the way."
"I know. I was only kidding, you know. To make you banter with me. Because it's my favorite thing you do with me."
"Your favorite?" I try to sound suggestive.
"Yes, my favorite."
I pull off the wedge of lime and clink my shot glass with his. We both down our shots simultaneously, and after I bite my lime, I say, "He told me to be a good little slut and suck his dick."
Without a beat of hesitation, Jaime says, "I'll kill him."
"You won't, because I don't want to spend the night bailing you out of jail."
His finger is beneath my chin, lifting my face to look at him. He's biting on his lower lip again. He does this when he's thinking about me. "I did what you asked. I'm probably too drunk to drive home and will end up crashing at your parents' house. But if you don't want to..."
I rest my hand on his thigh. "I want you."
His mouth snaps shut.
"Not just in bed. I want to be with you and I don't want to hide it. You know who else thinks I'm a slut? My mother. It took twenty-two years and one night of me wearing a sinful dress. That's it. I've been stressing out about them finding out the real me the entire time I've been here and it's been such a waste of energy. I'm an adult and I'm done playing games. So fucking kiss me."
He does. It's soft and sweet, and when he pulls away, he says, "Welcome to your real life, Britain McCulley."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We don't get shit-faced drunk, mainly because sex isn't fun when you're shit-faced drunk. But the forty-a-pull scotch goes down smooth like water, and even though my parents don't speak with me or Jaime for the remainder of the evening, they get the hint that he shouldn't drive home.
It's near midnight when we leave the benefit dinner. Ava left with her family and Micah is nowhere to be seen, so we only take one car back to the house. In the limo driving back, my father nods to the drink in Jaime's hands (one in a glass he took from the bar) and says, "Looks like you'll be cozying up in one of our guest rooms."
"If that's okay," says Jaime.
"Of course it's okay. Hell, you respect me enough to still have your shoes on."
I wiggle my dirty toes, and Mom's eyes travel from my breasts to my feet. But I don't care about my passive-aggressive parents. I'm kind of tipsy and Jaime Rivera is sleeping over.
When we leave the limo and enter the foyer, the house is dark and quiet. Dad directs Jaime to the room he can use, which is in mine and Cam’s wing. When me, Cam, and Jaime head upstairs, Cam stops in the hall and stares at the both of us, almost like he knows what's going on. When neither of us say anything, he says, "Soooo, Dad said your room was upstairs."
"Right," says Jaime. He holds his arms out to me, expecting some weird sibling-esque hug. I give it to him, making it look as awkward and uncomfortable as possible for Cam. "Night all. See you in the morning."
"Night," I echo back.
When Jaime heads up the hall, I walk to my room. Cam watches me, waiting until I shut my door.
He totally knows.
The same time I think it, I receive a text from Jaime. He knows.
He was going to find out eventually, right? I text back.
My phone chimes. Hopefully he doesn't kill me.
My fingers move across the screen as I type. And if he does, you might as well get a good lay in before he takes you out.
He writes back immediately. Impatient much? Get sexy for me. I'll be there in a few.
I scoff at my phone. Wait for him? Get sexy for him? I've been sexy for him all night. I've gotten in trouble for being sexy for him. Fat fucking chance.
I strip off my dress and my strapless, backless bra and throw on a ratty oversized t-shirt. Then, I pull out the zillion bobby pins stuffed in my hair and take out my contacts. I'm sliding my glasses onto my nose right when I hear the scratching on the door. Jaime opens it and slips into the room.
"About time."
"Brit, that was literally fifteen minutes."
"I'm tired of waiting." The words come off harsh and dangerous, exactly how I want them to. "Take off your shirt."
"I like when you talk business in the bedroom," he says with a grin, grabbing unbuttoning his shirt and stripping it slowly from his body. It may be half-dark in here, but damn, watching him do that never gets old.
I walk over, not breaking eye contact with him as I press my hands against his abs and push him. He gives in, backing up until I have him against the wall.
I smile wickedly, and then drop to my knees. I undo his belt and button and slide his pants and boxers down before he can process what I'm doing. He's already hard, his perfect cock mere inches from my face. I slide my fingers around the base of it and take him into my mouth.
"Fuck, Brit," he breathes, fingers tangling in my hair. I swirl my tongue over the head of his cock before taking him all. I moan so he can feel the vibration, and he grips my hair harder. It may be because I'm drunk, or the taboo fact that I'm blowing Jaime in my parents’ house, but I'm really, really enjoying this. And let's be real, giving head is rarely fun.
I pull back, running my tongue along the base before looking up and making eye contact with him. The second I do, he shuts his eyes and tilts his head back, then uses the hand gripping my hair to pull me away. He breathes heavily, and I wonder if something is wrong before he says, "You know those shitty romance novels Andrea gets some of her inspiration from, the ones where the girl sucks the guy off and then he's magically hard five minutes later?"
"That doesn't happen in real life?" I say innocently, tongue darting over and licking the head of his cock again.
"Not really. And I want to fuck you tonight. For a long time. I won't be able to do that if you keep using that sweet mouth of yours on me."
"Fine," I say blatantly. "Go to my desk chair and sit down."
He chuckles. "I don't remember you being this demanding in Boston." Naked, he walks around me to my desk chair, spins it toward me, and sits.
"Second drawer," I tell him.
He opens the second drawer of my desk and smiles
when he finds what I'm directing him to. "Always prepared?" he asks, pulling out a condom.
"Always."
He rips open the wrapper and rolls on the condom. His erection juts upward and I think of every way I want him to push it inside of me.
I stand and slip my panties down. "We weren't together for long in Boston, remember? You ran away."
I walk to him, straddling his lap. He grabs my hips and looks at me seriously. "You never punished me for that."
"I'll think of something, but not tonight."
There's only one thing I want to do tonight.
I slowly sink down onto him. My eyes roll back at the feel of him stretching me, filling me. He rips off my shirt and I roll my hips frantically, not wanting to wait anymore, to be teased. I wrap my arms around his neck and meet his lips. His slick tongue glides over mine.
"I want to fucking scream your name," I murmur against his mouth.
He growls and sinks his fingers into my hips, taking control as he guides me up and down quick and rhythmically, our skin slapping together. Suddenly he stops, holding me to him. I try to squirm but his strength keeps me still.
"Ever thought about being in front of the camera?" he asks me breathlessly.
"Hell no," I gasp.
Kissing me gently, he says. "I have. With you, I mean. What it would look like from a third perspective, with me inside of you. Where we'd be, what position."
He guides my hips, rolling them slowly. It's sheer torture. "Tell me."
He wraps his arms around me and stands. With him inside of me, I cling to him with my legs as he carries me to my bed. We separate as he drops me onto my back. My ratty hair is splayed everywhere. I realize now I'm still wearing my glasses.
"You like how sexy I dressed for you?" I ask smugly.
He pulls my knees apart and slides between them. "You dressed exactly how I wanted you to dress."
"Psychotic?"
"I was thinking like yourself, but psychotic works too."
"Ass—” my word is cut off by a gasp as he slides into me again.
"Raise your arms above your head." He commands. He's playing the director character in this scenario. He's playing me.
"Arch your back. Show me those perfect fucking breasts. There you go." He rocks into me at the same time his hands roam over my chest. He rolls both of my nipples between his fingers until they're pebble-hard. He thrusts into me again, harder.
"You haven't thought of our scenario," I mumble, barely coherent at the feel of him moving inside of me.
"Childhood friend meet-up at parents' house fifteen years later." He thrusts again. "One of them is an asshole." And again. "The other is a mouthy bitch."
He fucks me at a glorious, steady rhythm, and I'm at loss for any witty comeback.
"The mouthy bitch seduces the asshole, of course," he gasps. "Mainly because the asshole is too terrified to make a move. She's way too good for him. Successful and confident and adorable. Loves making the asshole feel vulnerable. Loves sex. She's a fucking goddess."
One hand slips between my legs, and his thumb strokes my clit. The only word I can manage is his name.
He picks up his pace, and I bite down hard on my bottom lip. Minutes pass before he gives me my next instruction as a model beneath his fake camera. He slows, holding my legs open in a V.
Still inside of me, he says, "Touch yourself."
I release a surprised breath. "What?"
"Touch yourself like you did those nights when you were a teenager, thinking about what it would be like to fuck me. I want to see it. I want to watch you."
Fucking hell, I could come right now.
I never thought being on display for anyone would be fun, but Jaime's eyes are feral, hungry to watch me. I bring my hand to my mouth, sucking on two fingers slowly, even though I'm more than wet enough. I do it for show, to watch him lose his mind.
He keeps himself inside of me, but he's motionless as my hand trails through the valley of my breasts and past my navel. I shut my eyes for effect. My fingers roll over my clit and I arch my back, my lips parting. I try to pretend I'm alone, that he isn't here, watching me. I try to think back to what it was like six years ago, when I did this to myself while thinking of him. I was ashamed of myself, but I couldn't stop. I wanted a wild night of abandon with Jaime, but I'd only let that happen in my head. No one could know my deep-seeded lust for him.
I increase my pressure and my pace when his hips begin to rock again, slowly, like he's incredibly distracted.
With my other hand I palm my breast, rolling my nipple slowly between my fingers.
"Tell me what you're thinking about," he says huskily, rocking his hips into me again.
"You at eighteen, oh God... you'd knock on my bedroom door, like you knew. I would tell you I wanted you."
He groans. "Why did this never happen?"
"It did." I moan in frustration. "Fuck me, Jaime. Hard."
He grips my legs and thrusts into me. I open my eyes and watch him as he loses himself, my worker, my tormentor, this glorious boy. It almost doesn't feel real, until it does. The pressure builds and I move my fingers faster. I tell him I'm going to come because I want him to watch me. I want him to know what he does to me.
My whole body shudders and I whimper my orgasm, trying to be quiet and failing so miserably. He lets up for a second to flip me over and pull my ass up, crawling onto the bed and fucking me from behind. With my cheek pressed to the mattress, the only things keeping me in place are his hands on my hips. I nearly tear the sheets off the bed as he rewards me with his total abandonment.
He groans, slowing his pace and gasping for air. When he slips out of me, I roll over, sighing happily, wiping sweaty, frizzy locks of hair away from my forehead.
We don't exchange words. He kisses me softly before leaving for the bathroom. When he returns, he crawls on top of me, resting his head on my chest. I feel his body move against me as the breath leaves and enters him.
"A year," I whisper. "Why has it been almost a whole year since we've done this?"
"Because I don't deserve you." The answer seems easy for him. "Every time I think about being with you, I can't help but wonder if I'm taking advantage of you."
"Is that why you made me come twice this summer before screwing me?"
"No." He kisses my neck. "I just like getting you off. I needed to watch you. And taste you. I wanted you to remember that you own me. My career... and other sappier things."
"Your heart?" I giggle.
"Yeah. That thing."
I want to ask if he means it, but he doesn't give me a chance.
"I need to tell you something. About Cam."
CHAPTER TWELVE
My parents never knock before entering a room. It's been that way since I was a little kid. It was a rule of the house. Don't do anything in our rooms that we wouldn't be able to do in common rooms. Change in the bathroom. Smoke weed in the bathroom. Don't leave drugs or porn or dirty notes tucked in drawers or beneath mattresses. Mom and Dad will find them. Sure it was screwed up, but I never had a problem following the rules because I was never stupid enough to own any troublesome paraphernalia. Or bring boys into my bedroom.
When Mom walks into my room, Jaime's hand is between my legs, his fingers inside of me. He's been that way all morning. I try to hide him beneath the sheets, but it's too late. He pulls his hand from me and sits up before he even realizes what's happening.
Mom would probably get over finding a boy in my bed, considering I am twenty-two years old and a college graduate and, for the love of God, old enough to be having sex. But the boy is Jaime.
And the first word uttered from my mouth is "fuck."
She doesn't say anything when I pull the sheets to my chest. Her eyes widen to the size of saucers, and she looks as though she's seen a ghost, or maybe Satan himself. She quickly slips back out of my room and shuts the door.
A string of expletives leaves Jaime's mouth. "Did she even knock?"
"No." I
hop out of bed, grabbing my t-shirt and underwear from the floor, and then search my drawers for a pair of sweatpants. “She never knocked when I was little. Probably a force of habit. They don't expect to find a naked man in my bed." I start tugging on my clothes.
"I'm not just a naked man, Brit." Jaime says slowly, flustered. I've actually never seen him look this panicked before.
"I know you aren't." Mom knows that I slept with Jaime. Jaime Rivera, who has been Cam's hellion of a friend since they were kids, who Dad fired for embezzlement, who is trying to make nice with my family again.
"I'll fix this," I say.
"No you won't." He tugs on his dress pants and shirt from the night before. "You've done nothing wrong and you shouldn't have to defend yourself to them. Let me talk to them."
"Tell me how well that went last time," I say harshly.
"About as well as it's going to go this time, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to do it." And with that, he leaves me alone in my room.
I pace for a while. Then I text him to ask him how it went, before realizing that his phone is probably dead.
I remember that I told my editor I'd send a rough draft of Andrea's story along with the raw photos I chose for the storybook. So to distract myself, I sit down at my computer and work, scanning through my prized photos, my accomplishments. Pictures of gorgeous, naked people. This is my life.
And Jaime is part of my life too.
I compose the file and am in the process of sending the email when someone knocks on my door. It must be Cam.
He doesn't wait for me to say anything. When he enters, I can tell he's livid. "Family meeting," he spits before shutting my door again.
He has no right to be angry.
I shut my laptop and make my way downstairs. Mom and Dad are already sitting in the loveseat. Mom's nursing a Bloody Mary, and I don't know if it's because of what happened last night or what happened this morning.
I choose the chair farthest from them and sit.
Dad has put on his mean face. He's only ever put on his mean face to discipline Cam, because Dad really hasn't ever been pissed at me before.
