Opening the door, I stepped inside and closed it behind me, catching Josh’s eyes on mine in the reflection of the mirror. He didn’t stop what he was doing though, instead quickly diverting his gaze back to himself.
Okay. Two can play at this game.
I wasn’t about to stand there and start firing accusatory questions at him. That wouldn’t go down too well. According to the history of mankind, the male species didn’t fair well with emotional word-overload from the mouth of a female. So, instead, I figured I’d ease us into conversation and chose a weight machine to occupy my body while my thoughts prepared for their disguised assault.
Bad idea. Super bad. Gym machines were evil—like apples and bikes—and the one I’d picked looked like something you’d find in a birthing suite, if only by how it had you positioning your legs—wide apart … wide, wide apart.
Not wanting to be beaten by said evil gym machine, I awkwardly climbed onto the thing and found the handgrips. I clenched them tightly and tried to close my forced spread legs against the tension of the weights.
Fail. The machine was clearly broken.
Trying again, I nearly popped out a baby as I squeezed my thighs, my resulting grunt loud and hideous.
“Corinne, stop. You’re going to hurt yourself,” Josh said softly, shaking his head while smiling.
I let out my breath together with a string of frustrated words. “Stupid fucking thing is broken, and stupid, and broken, and I hate it.”
He laughed and squatted by my legs, his hand delicately sliding onto my knee. It made me flinch, his touch searing my skin. Our eyes met momentarily, excitement, lust and need dancing from stare to stare. His fingers flexed. Holy shit! What am I doing? We need to talk.
I swallowed heavily and smiled, which was when Josh reached over my lap with his other hand and pulled the pin out of the weights stack. He then reinserted it at a higher hole and gave me a lopsided grin. “You were trying to lift more than your own bodyweight.”
“Oh. And that’s not good?”
His delicious grin increased as he shook his head. “For you … with those scrawny arms and legs? No.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling then frowning at his stab at my limbs. I lifted my arm and tried to flex my non-existent bicep. “They’re not that bad.”
Keeping one hand on my knee, he placed his other on my arm and squeezed. “They’re not that good either.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said playfully, but dipped my head, feeling a fool.
“Corinne, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for everything, especially what I did in Canberra,” he said quickly, removing his hand from my knee.
I looked up and grabbed it, holding it tightly. “Josh, you’ve already apologised. I don’t want to hear it anymore.”
His head dropped and he went to stand, so I pulled him toward me, pressing my lips to his, softly, gently—my intent to make him feel something. Anything. It was a risk on my part, but one I was willing to take. Even after everything he’d said to me and after everything I’d witnessed where he and women were concerned, there was just something in his self-defeat that told me he needed someone who cared enough to make an effort for him. And not the type of effort that involved doing my hair, applying makeup and displaying my breasts. No. Something told me he needed real … no bullshit. And that was exactly what I was.
The man sighed. Yeah, fucking sighed, his free hand finding the back of my head, his fingers flexing into my scalp and holding me firm, as if he thought I would slip from his hold. I matched his sigh and let out a soft moan of my own, opening my mouth and inviting his teasing tongue.
A hint of orange energy drink tingled my tastebuds. He tasted good. He even smelled good; sweaty and primal and one hundred per cent man. God, it was a turn on.
“Fuck,” he murmured, prying his other hand free from mine and snaking it around my back. “Thought I’d fucked up, sweetheart. Thought I’d never get to taste you again.” He lifted me from the machine, and my legs automatically encased his waist, securing me to him. The friction it created between my legs was divine, and I couldn’t help it. I moaned, loud.
It drew out one of his pearly-white smiles. “You changed your mind about fucking me?”
“Not entirely.” My words were breathy, my body buzzing. “I believe in give and take.”
“Me too,” he said, trailing his mouth down my neck, stopping to gently nip at my collarbone. “I believe in giving you an orgasm, and taking your breath away.”
Oh, the joy. Oh, the feels … oh, the sweet quiver of my pussy. Breath gone. Orgasm pending.
Josh walked to the yoga mat and laid us down. “I fucking missed you,” he said, almost desperately, before his lips once again found mine.
“Josh,” I gasped, shocked by his anguish over me.
His hand slid down my side, over my hip and down my thigh, leaving my skin buzzing where his fingers had trailed. Hitching my leg at the knee, he lifted it and wrapped it around his hip before grinding his pelvis against mine. My God, it was heaven. The friction. The heat. The buzzing. His need.
Soft hungry lips left mine and skated down my neck, quickly finding their way to my breasts. And damn, were they ready for the contact. They were hard and singing with expectation as cold air caressed my skin before the wet warmth of his mouth vanquished the chill, the combination in such short succession, amazing. For a split second I worried that someone could walk in, or watch from around the corner like I had. But in all honestly, my body was so alive with sensation that I couldn’t bring myself to stop. Not to mention the gym machines were doing a very good job of obscuring our position on the floor.
“Josh,” I cried out, my back bowing, my grip on his head tightening.
His soft eyes lifted and met mine, turning hungrier—intensity and searing passion swimming in among desire—and, together with my nipple clamped between his lips, made me almost want to give in and fuck him just for the hell of it. Almost. But I wasn’t going to. I would never fuck him for the hell of it. Ever … I think.
My mouth opened to tell him to stop, but he growled, engulfed more of my breast and slipped his hand down my pants, his fingers sliding against my wet heat.
I moaned, unashamedly.
“Jesus fucking Christ you’re wet.” Josh pumped a finger inside me and massaged my clit with his thumb as his tongue performed all kinds of wonderful things to my chest.
Fuck!
No. Mustn’t do this.
Yes.
Good God, no.
Oh yes!
It was too late. I couldn’t stop him. He was already working me to orgasm, and I wanted it. Bad. More than anything. I hadn’t had a non-BOB induced climax for more than a year, and I was well and truly due.
Fuck the consequences.
Sure, I’d more than likely regret my decision to scream his name afterwards, when my body came down from the high, and what-the-fuck-did-you-just-do set in. But when cruising a sensation of bliss, it building oh so slowly with every stroke of his finger and swipe of his tongue, regret was a price worth paying for the stars I would see in mere seconds. Those stars were the brightest and most beautiful in the world, and could only be seen on the back of my eyelids. So yeah, I would regret what I was doing, but fuck I wanted those stars.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God! Don’t stop, whatever you do don’t stop,” I moaned, my eyes pressed shut, stars ready to shine.
A heavy, passionate kiss and fervent twitch of his fingers, and I was there: sweat-dampened, breathless and star-struck. Oh my fucking God!
Best. Orgasm. Ever! And I’m not afraid to admit it. The man knew his stuff, which, when I thought about it, both disgusted and impressed me. But that wasn’t yesterday’s news, so I couldn’t be angry with him.
“Josh,” I whispered, panting as my eyes fluttered opened and found his.
The sated smile I wore slipped from my face, and my stomach all but disintegrated. Josh’s happy, satisfied and hooded smile—the one I thought he’d be wearing—was
nowhere to be seen. Instead, all I saw was confusion … and regret.
“Josh, what’s wr—”
“That was fun, sweetheart, but I’m busy. I’ve got shit to do.”
He sprung up and offered me his hand, but I just stared at it, as if it weren’t real. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even string two thoughts together so that I could process what the fuck had just happened.
Silence.
You arsehole. You gutless fucking arsehole. Eyes flaring and heart pounding, I slapped his hand away and got to my feet. “I know what you’re up to … how you operate. You’re as transparent as a fucking pane of glass.”
Face stoic, he turned and walked to the weight bench, his back the only thing he was now offering me. “You know jack shit, Corinne.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I choked out. “I know that underneath the coat of arsehole you choose to wear, there’s skin covered in fear. Fear of taking a chance, fear of actually being honest, and fear of admitting you’re lonely and desperate for what you’re chasing away.”
He picked up a dumbbell and proceeded to work his bicep. “And why would I do that?”
“Because you’re a fucking coward. That’s why.” I wiped away the tears streaming down my face and turned for the door. He wasn’t getting my tears. They belonged to me.
As I wrenched on the handle, Brad entered the room. “Cori, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I answered, plastering on a fake smile.
I quickly walked past him, leaving the door open behind me, and made my way to the elevator, desperate for the privacy of my room.
“What the fuck did you do?” Brad asked, his tone, loud and accusatory.
“Nothing. She’s just a typical moody chick.”
Fucking Prick! Prick with a capital P and fucking with a pole up the arse.
“One day you’re gonna wake up, man, and there’ll be no one around to see you drown in your own shit. Think about that while you work those pretty little biceps.”
If I weren’t so utterly devastated, embarrassed and hurt, I would’ve laughed at Brad’s comment. But there was not one shred of humour left in me, not after what I’d just been tricked into doing. Cori, you stupid, stupid fool.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrapped a towel around my body and wiped a patch of steam from the mirror, tears threatening to fill my eyes as I took myself in. You let your guard fall. You opened yourself up to it all. You willingly played his game of Russian Roulette, and you are to blame for the tears you now shed. I removed my gaze from the mirror … because it never lied.
I’d been played, plain and simple, and I only had myself to blame. He’d warned me, told me that this was what he did … who he was. I just hadn’t wanted to believe him, instead wanting to believe that deep down he had a heart—a lonely one, yet a heart all the same. Yeah, yeah … shoot me for wanting to focus on the good in people. Lesson learned.
As it had turned out, I hadn’t discovered his heart. What I’d discovered was the absence of one. I also didn’t understand why he hadn’t pushed harder to fuck and then crush me. That had me really confused. Maybe my pussy wasn’t good enough for him. You know what? Fuck you, you slutty, obnoxious, turd. My pussy is prime pussy.
Stomping out of the bathroom, I rummaged through my suitcase, finding my blue dress. The memory it held for me instantly triggered my self-deprecation because, truth be told, I’d inadvertently told myself I could be his exception. Ha! I laughed at my own ridiculousness and tossed the dress aside just as there was a knock at the door. Fuck! The last time this happened it was fuckface himself, and I definitely didn’t want to see him now … or ever.
“Cori, you in there? It’s me, Brad.” Shit!
“Um … yeah. Hang on a second.” I rummaged some more, grabbing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Underwear would have to wait.
Dancing the jean-jig—because denim against your bare necessities wasn’t pleasant—I adjusted my temporary ensemble one last time before opening the door. “Hey!”
Brad stood in the hallway, flicking through his phone while leaning against the wall. “Oh, hey. You all right? I just wanted to check in on you after what happened before.”
“What happened before? What did he tell you?” I snapped, panicked that Josh had blabbed. The last thing I needed was the entire cast and crew knowing his fingers had been inside me right before he gave me my marching orders. How humiliating.
“Nothing. But clearly something did.”
I sighed, partly in relief and partly because I was an idiot for opening my big mouth. “Not really. Josh is just a jerk. An even bigger one than what I’d originally thought. It’s cool though. I’m a big girl. I’ve dealt with bigger jerks than him.”
“I seriously doubt that, babe. Josh takes the cake for Jerkoff King.”
I let out a mild laugh. “You want to come in? I have a mini bar.”
He winked. “You had me at mini.”
Leading Brad into my room, I quickly collected a bra and G-string—things he did not need to see.
“You’re messier than Dimps,” he said, picking up one of my bras. “Messier, but definitely sexier.”
I snatched it from him. “Very funny. So, what can I get you? I have tea, coffee, beer, nuts, vodka, whiskey, Coke, Pringles and a Kit Kat.”
“Where’s the Maltesers?”
“Never had any,” I answered, a sneaky smile betraying my ruse.
He narrowed his gaze. “Liar.”
“Okay, okay, I had an attack of the munchies last night after watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.”
“Best movie ever!” he said, sitting on the edge of my bed.
“I know, right?” I tore open the Kit Kat wrapper and snapped it in two, tossing him half before sitting on my bed next to him and crossing my legs.
“Which one do you like best? The Johnny Depp or Gene Wilder one?” he mumbled, taking a bite. “Honestly?”
“The original, definitely, although, I do love Johnny Depp. He’s amazing! What about you?”
“Yeah, the original. But the Oompa Loompas were the shit in the newer version.”
I cracked up laughing. “Yes!”
Wow! Brad was so easy to talk to when he wasn’t trying to get inside my pants.
“So, Cori, you sure you’re okay? You looked pretty upset downstairs.” The sincerity in his eyes was really touching. Brad was a good guy. Sometimes you could just tell that. The funny thing was, I’d felt the same way about Josh and … well … I’d been so wrong.
“Please don’t worry. Really, I’m fine. It was my fault. Not Josh’s. Bad morning, that’s all.”
He raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Hmm … okay. Just know that if you need me for anything, and I mean anything … back rub, foot rub, any kind of rub … I’m here for you.”
I leaned over and gave him a quick hug. “Thank you. It’s nice to know I have a friend and someone to watch my back.”
Brad’s return smile held a hint of sadness, and it kind of broke my heart. I knew what I’d just said wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but he had to hear it nonetheless. Romantically, I felt nothing for him—it just wasn’t there. He was gorgeous, sweet, funny and über kind. And I had no doubt he’d make some woman really happy. But he just wasn’t my type.
Then again, I didn’t really know what my type was anymore. My type hadn’t been Josh Adams either, and yet look what had happened there.
“So, are you doing the bridge climb later on?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Shit yeah. You?”
I bit down on my fingernail. “I don’t know. I have a small fear of heights.”
“Small?” He tilted his head. “How small?”
“I’m normally fine if enclosed, like in a skyscraper or plane, but out in the open? Er … not so much.”
“Ah. You’ll be fine. You gotta do it. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
He was right. I would. Ugh! Looks like I’m climbing the Sydney Harbou
r Bridge today.
***
Fucking regret it, my arse! What I regret is agreeing to this death wish in the first place. What the hell was I thinking? ‘Small’ fear of heights? Pfft … try mammoth fear. Gigantic. Fucking HUGE!
“Why do we have so many harnesses? We’re using a walking path and stairs, right? It’s totally safe, right? And what the hell are all these cables and hooks and stuff?” I asked our instructor, Ian, as he clipped my harness and safety line to the God-awful jumpsuit I was now wearing.
“Yes, it’s perfectly safe, especially with this harness.” He placed a cap on my head and handed me an audio pack. “Put this on and switch it to channel four.”
I nodded dubiously and put the headphones over my hat.
“Corinne, can I talk to you for a second?”
Glancing up, my eyes momentarily settled on Josh, the sight of him in the unflattering wind-resistant jumpsuit a small form of retribution. He looked hilarious. “Sorry. Can’t hear you,” I explained, pointing to my headphones. I then shrugged unapologetically and turned my back on him, taking my position in line behind Brad.
“Okay, are we all ready?” Ian asked. “All been to the toilet?”
Noah stepped out of line. “No! Wait! … Can’t I take a piss from the bridge if I need to?”
“Sure … if you want to be arrested. But I would suggest you urinate now … here … in the toilet. I’ve never had one of my group members carted away by the cops. And I don’t want to start today.”
“Nah, I’m all good,” Noah dismissed the idea, waving his hand at Ian. “I can hold it.”
“Okay, suit yourself.” Ian did a quick headcount then we were on our way. “Remember, watch your step, eyes ahead, and for all you giraffes among us—and there’s a few of you—watch your head. Trust me, there are a couple of spots where even a leprechaun would need to duck, so please be careful. Our girl is made of steel, and I can guarantee that if you do happen to head-butt her, you’ll come off second best.”
I laughed. I liked Instructor Ian. He was good value. Not to mention that laughing seemed to help minimise the utter dread brewing within me. Okay, I can do this.
Revue Page 11
