by Alexis James
“I can’t stop at kissing!” she announces loudly, shocking us both.
Her strategy works, though, because I sit back and mumble, “Say what?”
Her cheeks flush again, but her eyes remain steady on mine. “If you kiss me, I won’t be able to stop.” Now her eyes drift away. “Sorry. Just being honest with you.”
Crap. I hate it when she makes sense. “Don’t apologize. You’re right. I probably wouldn’t be able to stop at kissing either.” Call me a dick, but my eyes immediately stray to her tits. There’s no probably about it. One touch of her lips to mine and in a flash, I’d have her naked and moaning under me. Damn, if the idea alone doesn’t stir things between my legs. Again.
Her eyes find mine. “Are we terrible people, because we talk about these things like this?”
My fingers find hers and I squeeze. “No, babe, we’re not terrible. We’re honest. That’s a good thing remember?”
“Yeah.” She leans her head on my shoulder. “In keeping with that honesty, I must say that I really need to get laid.”
Chuckling, I reply, “So do I, sweet cheeks.”
She scoffs. “What? You probably got laid last night.”
“Nope. It’s been a few weeks.”
A strange, fleeting look of pain crosses her face, but it’s so brief I’m back to imagining that I’m seeing things again. “Huh.”
After a few moments of awkward silence, she leans forward for the container and goes right back to chomping on chow mien and yelling at the television. I attempt to resume eating, but I’m still too hot and horny from all the sex talk and the hump dancing to concentrate on anything other than the need for release.
Friends, Moran. You’re just friends.
In keeping with that theme, I wait until the movie is over, throw her one of my signature Moran smiles, and ask, “So, kissing is out but would you consider jacking me off, friend?”
Boys will be boys. And Marco will always be Marco. Crude and rude and cocky and arrogant … and the best friend I’ve had since Mia walked up to me the first day of college and asked where she could find the bathroom.
I suppose a lot of girls would have been turned off by his attitude that night at his condo. A lot of girls are shocked or stunned when a guy rocks a pup tent out of nowhere. But since I’m not one of those girls, I took it in stride as I do with most things having to do with my new BFF. Just like how I blew off the kissing stuff and the very inappropriate offer to give him a hand job. He got a hard slug in the arm for that one, and I also made him go out and buy me some rocky road ice cream as a way to redeem himself.
Oh, how I love a man who is willing to indulge my obsession with all things chocolate. I also love (not real love, just friend love) a man who trusts me enough to leave me in his condo for a good thirty minutes alone. Did I snoop? You bet I snooped. He’s my friend, after all, and if he can ask me to yank his chain, I sure as hell can see what he’s got hiding in his medicine cabinet—which sadly turned out to be a whole lot of nothing but toothpaste, deodorant, and the yummy cologne he always wears.
His nightstand drawer … now that was the bounty. It was chock full of condoms, lube, and a few toys that I wouldn’t mind trying out by myself … or with him … but we’re not going there. I did spend a good amount of time perusing other more unexciting drawers then went right back to the nightstand and spent a few minutes daydreaming about what he does with that silky black strap and those leather handcuffs.
Yeah, when I walked out of his immaculate bedroom, my panties may have been a tad drenched. Absolutely drenched. And what did he do? The moment he walked in the front door, he flat out asked me if I’d snooped. Then he asked me if I found the drawer.
For two people dead set on being friends, we sure did spend a lot of time talking about sex that night. No wonder I couldn’t wait to get home. Hell, I barely made it through the front door before I had my hand down my pants. He’s such an incorrigible ass, he called me about an hour later wanting to inquire how intense my orgasm was.
I’d never tell him, but it was fucking intense. The eye rolling kind.
We’re decidedly weird people—that much I’ve figured out—and while our conversations are certainly not appropriate for the average listener, nothing has ever felt more natural. Ever. Ever-ever. We’re like a demented version of yin and yang, both content to ask weird, off-color questions and make strange, off-color remarks. Nine times out of ten, sex is part of the package.
Having him as my friend makes life interesting and fun. And yes, very, very frustrating. In a sexual way, of course. I admit, I did my fair share of masturbating when I was with Victor, mostly because he was more about getting himself off than me, but since meeting Marco it feels almost obsessive. Out of control.
Hmm. I wonder if it’s like that for him too.
I doubt it. I really, really doubt it. Chances are he’s not anti-men like I am … I mean anti-women … you know what I mean. Chances are he’s getting his rocks off on a very frequent basis. Damn him. And damn the women who are helping him with his rocks. Lucky bitches.
Since that night last month, he and I have become a thing. Not a romantic thing, but an exchanging multiple texts, talking on the phone almost every day, seeing one another a few times a week thing. We have lunch together at least once a week and sometimes Mia joins us and other times it’s just me and him. We’ve gone to the movies together, hung out at each other’s homes, and I’ve recently become a permanent addition to the Moran family Sunday dinners.
It’s odd explaining what we are to other people, especially those who see us together but then see him out and about on the weekend partying with his friends. I assume he picks up women, but I don’t ask. His love life, or rather his sex life, is something we don’t discuss. Ever. Ever-ever.
Mia asked me the other day if I was jealous about the other women, and I told her no. I totally lied. I’m so jealous I bleed green, which is why I prefer to steer the conversation away from that subject altogether. What’s strange is that he must feel some weirdness about it too, because although he might casually mention that he went out the night before, that’s all the information I’m given.
We are so, so weird.
Quack-quack. His text is short and to the point. I’m here, sweet cheeks.
Keys in hand, I gather up my overflowing tote bag and purse and slide my sunglasses on top of my head. Moving quickly down the hall and into the stairwell, my flip-flops slapping on each stair, I hurry down to the main floor and burst out the doors.
Marco parks in his usual spot at the curb, and I can hear the bass pounding even before I open the door. I greet him with my token, “hey, hot stuff,” then start to laugh out loud. “Pony” is playing from the Bose stereo as he smirks at me and wiggles his eyebrows. Like I need a reminder of our … ah-hem … dance.
Because I’m a great best friend, I stow my bag in the back and proceed to sing a duet and seat dance as he pulls away from the curb and points his car toward his parents’ house. That’s what we do, you know.
We don’t speak until we’re once again parked, and he kills the engine. “Hey, sweet cheeks…” his eyes drift over my body encased in tattered denim shorts and a tank top “…you look hot.”
I wrinkle my face at him and climb out of the car. “I look like crap, Moran. My clothes are old and faded and I’m not wearing any makeup.”
He strolls around the Beemer and gives me a warm smile. “Shut up. You’re beautiful. Why the fuck would you need makeup? We’re going swimming.” Technically, we’re going boating, but since it’s a blistering day there’s a good chance we’ll be jumping overboard and cooling off.
Roman pulls up behind us, escorting this week’s twirly-bop out of his truck and dropping a kiss on her lips, one that starts out slow and quickly progresses into something not exactly appropriate for a public street.
“Jesus, really, Romeo? Put a fucking cork in it,” Marco growls, grabbing my tote and his bag and moving toward the house.
> “What’s this one’s name?” I whisper.
“No clue.” Marco smirks and leans toward my ear. “She deserves a nickname.” We started this game a few weeks ago when neither of us could keep track of Roman’s women. There was The Moaner, for obvious reasons. Although, she was really only around a few days. Then there was The Picker, who constantly kept grabbing her ass and adjusting her thong. The one we met a few days ago was The Snorter, who laugh-snorted constantly about every dumb thing that came out of Roman’s mouth.
“You’re on.” I roll the idea around in my head, take a quick glance at the couple who are still locked in an X-rated embrace. “She looks like she’s going to swallow his mouth whole.”
“Perfect. She’s The Swallower.” We share a chuckle and a grimace as we step up onto the porch.
“What would my nickname be, if you gave me one?”
He grins. “You mean other than sweet cheeks?” I shoot him a ‘duh’ look. “Well, I’d call you The Ball Buster.”
I smile up at him. “Love that.” I throw up my hand for him to high-five.
“You’re weird, you know that, Morales?”
“Yeah, but you love me.” I say it in jest, as I always do, and he responds in kind.
“You know it, babe.”
We greet his parents, who are kindly loaning our group the family boat for the day, though they’ve decided to sit this one out due to Mr. Moran’s health. From what Marco tells me, even though he had multiple bypass surgery the year before, the recovery has been very slow and the elder Moran can’t seem to regain all his strength and energy. Marco worries about his dad, as do all the siblings, and in a strange way it makes me long for a family of my own to care about and worry over. That’s pretty damn selfish of me, I know.
We pack the boat full of food and drinks and all our crap, stuffing it into coolers and storage compartments on the huge, sleek ski machine. Marco tries explaining what kind of boat it is and the size of the engine and all that crap that matters to men, but I’m just fascinated with how many cup holders there are. Clearly, I’m easy to please.
There are eight of us out today, including Isabella’s new beau Damian, a doctor at the hospital where she works. We’ve met him once before when our group met for drinks one evening. He seems like a nice guy, although Marco keeps giving him this crazy-eyed glare that I think he believes will scare off the guy. Seeing the way Damian looks at Isabella, I’m thinking nothing will send him running.
By the time Cruz pulls the boat away from the dock and we head out to sea, our group is in a lively mood. The music blasts loudly, some top 40’s dance mix (Isabella got first pick of the music), and everyone except the driver has an adult beverage. The humid Miami air beats against my skin as we skim out over the water, mist splashing up and cooling me.
“Awesome, huh?” Marco says, setting his arm on the seat behind me and grinning.
I nod. “This is great.” He and I are seated at the back of the boat while the others are sprawled out in the front, and Mia takes the lone copilot seat next to her man. Glancing around, I’m amazed at the rock-solid eye candy we’re toting, starting and ending with the man seated next to me who chooses that moment in time to peel his shirt off and let me get my first look at his bare torso.
Oh. My. Freaking. God. Is it really possible for him to look that good under his clothes? Obviously the answer is yes. And from the look on his face I can tell he sees exactly what his six pack and all that tanned skin is doing for me. Cocky bastard.
“Like what you see, sweet cheeks?”
I blow it off like I see abs like his every single day and mutter, “Eh, you’re okay.” He’s more than okay, and we both know it. Hopefully what he doesn’t know is that I’m wondering what the rest of his body looks like.
Friends, Amita. You’re just friends.
Mia sends me a mocking smile as if to say she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Chances are she does. ESP thing, remember?
Cruz slows the boat as we hit some traffic, and I take the opportunity to lose my own clothes, as most of the others do as well. Standing, I peel my shorts down and off, then do the same with my tank top, grateful as always that I spend so much time in the gym. Yeah, I’m more than okay too.
“Turn around,” Marco states, his voice low enough for me to hear and just demanding enough to make me shiver. I make a show of it, turning to face him and looking him straight in the eye. He peruses my body and chills wash out over my skin. His eyes linger far too long on my breasts then finally drift down. The bikini I’m wearing is simple, nothing too blingy for this chick. Just two simple pieces in deep green that cover only the basic necessities. The top is a halter style, which gives me great cleavage and the bottoms have dainty little ties at each hip. Simple, basic, and sexy as hell.
Marco’s eyes eventually drift to mine once again, but all he can do is mutter, “Damn.”
I’m grinning when I resume my seat and watch him struggle for restraint, tearing his fingers through his hair and shifting uncomfortably. “Like what you see, hot stuff?”
He narrows his eyes in mock annoyance. “Eh, you’re okay.” He lays his arm behind me and leans close to whisper, “Look at me.” When I turn my head to comply, our noses touch and I can feel his breath drift across my skin. “Sweet cheeks, I need to say I’m sorry.”
I frown. “Sorry? For what?”
“This.” Before he can utter another word he leans in just enough to touch his lips to mine. We’re barely kissing, barely grazing the surface, but the intent is there all the same. Then his arm is around my shoulders and one of us sighs. I think it’s me. He leans in further and captures my mouth fully in his this time, in the sweetest, softest, most endearing kiss I’ve ever received. I may or may not lean closer. I also may or may not slide my hand over his warm chest, wind it around his neck, and weave my fingers in his hair.
Just when I’m really getting into it and imagining all the wonderful things that can come after this sweet, soft, endearing kiss, he lifts his head and sits slightly back, stating firmly, “Nope. I take that back. Not sorry. Not one damn bit.”
Strangely enough, we go on with our day as if nothing happened. We banter back and forth like always, flirt occasionally like we do, and have a really great time. Cruz stops the boat so that we can swim for a while, and Marco spends most of the time splashing me in the face with water and showing me the proper way to float. We dry off and enjoy a lunch of sandwiches and chips, drink some beer and lounge in the sun, talking for a good part of the day, until finally Cruz turns the boat around and we head for home.
Still, I keep expecting things to be weird between us. But on the drive home, we listen to music and chat, and when he drops me off, he throws out the token, “See ya, sweet cheeks.” It’s like any other day, but not. So maybe it’s just me then, making more out of something simple than it really was. Maybe it was more of an experimental thing for him, you know, seeing if it was as good as you imagined.
It totally was by the way.
Once I’ve showered and slathered my sunburned body with lotion, I pull on a loose tee, one of those that you win in a giveaway that has sponsors listed all over it, then meander downstairs to make a snack.
My phone rings loudly just as I pull the bread from the cupboard and without looking, I grab it up and mutter a greeting. The voice on the other end is a surprise—not a good one either—and I immediately drop what I’m doing and demand, “What do you want, Victor?”
“I want to see you, Mita. We need to talk.”
Grinding my teeth at his abbreviation, I snap, “We have nothing to talk about.”
“Come on, babe, we had four years together. The least you could do is meet me for coffee.”
Crap. I hate that he’s right, though I am highly suspicious of what this talk might entail. “Will Portia be joining us?”
“What? No. I’m not seeing her anymore.”
What a surprise. “Can’t we just do this on the phone?”
“It’
s just coffee. That’s all.”
The guilt that I’ve carried since our breakup is the only answer I need. “Okay. Tomorrow?”
“Sure.” He rattles of the name of a local coffee shop, and we agree on a time. “Thanks, Mita. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yep.”
Call disconnected, I shove the bread back into the cupboard and dig around in the freezer for my trusty tub of ice cream. Who cares if it’s the half-gallon size? This is a crisis and during a time of crisis one should indulge.
Spoon and ice cream in hand, I stomp to the couch, flop down, and click the television on, debating whether or not to tell Mia what’s happening … or worse, tell Marco. He’s going to shit a brick when he hears, so I better wait until all is said and done before I come clean.
I shove a huge bite of Rocky Road into my mouth and fire up Netflix. Damn Victor. Way to ruin a perfectly good, perfectly amazing day.
Karen Callahan wore her hair in braids until the fourth grade, when she traded them in for a bra and a take-no-prisoners attitude. This girl I’d known since the first day of Kindergarten had been my on and off again nemesis over the years, my occasional playmate, and on the rare moment when I was feeling generous, my confidant. Not that one can have anything particularly ingenious to confide at the age of ten, but still … she was the one I turned to when I needed to vent about my brothers or complain about my parents’ strict rules.
She was also the person who granted me my first ever kiss during an impromptu game of spin the bottle the summer after sixth grade. Since that time I’ve kissed hundreds of women. Some were the innocent kisses of youth, experimenting with what to do and what not to do, which would eventually lead to the confidant kisses I now exchange with those willing women who eagerly spread their legs for me. Some kisses were sloppy and stomach churning and some were filled with heat that shot directly between my legs, leaving me hot and bothered and more than unfulfilled. Never have I exchanged a kiss with a woman where our lips barely touched and no tongues were involved yet I felt that touch on every level, filling my head with confusion and causing my blood to race (south, predictably). Never have I wanted to take it further but fear and apprehension held me back. Never have I wanted something so much I would give my life for it.
