Upside Down

by Lia Riley

  How would I start, if I want to initiate action? I’ve never tried to put seductive moves on anyone. What if this all goes spectacularly wrong and I make a total idiot out of myself?

  With care, I place the pictures in the shoebox, hoping he can’t tell how badly my hands tremble.

  “Are you thirsty? Hungry? Want to go on a kitchen raid? Even though my parents barely ever put in an appearance, they hire a housekeeper who keeps the place stocked with dulce de leche and…”

  He trails off because I crawl into the middle of his bed. I sit back on my knees and begin to unbutton my shirt, slowly, pretending like I’m someone else. A girl who strips for hot guys like it’s the most natural thing in the world. One button, two buttons, three buttons, four, five, six. Every number calms me more.

  Here goes nothing.

  “Get over here.” My shirt falls open. I shrug the thin white cotton from my shoulders.

  “Talia.” His chest rises and falls; his pupils dilate.

  I love when he says my name in that way, like it’s something vital to his existence.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?” I unhook my bra, let it slip free from my arms and my breasts tighten from the exposure to the cool air. “I’m going to seduce you.”

  “Right.” He moves across the bed with pantherlike grace. He has on that hunting face, but he’s going to learn that I’m the one on the prowl.

  I can’t believe I’m being so ballsy. I tug down my skirt and panties in one gesture, kick free of my clothes like I’m a total boss. Not a scared little girl afraid he might change his mind at any second.

  Bran reaches for my exposed skin and I check him with a single word. “No.”

  “No?”

  “No,” I repeat gently, without mercy. “I want to do the touching.”

  He blinks before his mouth crooks. “You’re full of surprises.”

  “You’re overdressed for this party.” I peel up his shirt and trace the indents of his stomach muscles. I tug the shirt higher to reveal his pecs and dip forward to take one of his flat nipples into my mouth, worrying the tip with my teeth.

  His hands grab the back of my head and I shake him off. “No touching.”

  He groans. “I don’t know if I like this game.”

  “Remove your shirt and lie down on your back.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He obeys, and it’s pretty hot.

  I’ve reached a part of my mind that I didn’t know existed. The place that’s confidently sexual, wants to be actively in control, not simply acted upon. Don’t get me wrong, I loved when Bran touched me, but right now I want to take the lead. It’s the same feeling I had when I rubbed on him in the shower. Except stronger. Dark pleasure curls through me. The tenor in the room shifts. Tension ripples, visible across his flexed stomach when I reach out, undo his jeans’ button, and lower the zipper tooth by tooth.

  “Please.”

  I tug down his pants and resist the urge to say, “Whoop, there it is.”

  Because, serious, wow.

  I’ve never gone down on a guy. The fact had never really bothered me until right this second. I wish I had experience to draw from. There’d been one time, in high school, when I’d discovered a book, Sex Tips for Straight Women from a Gay Man, while wandering the basement shelves of Logos Books. I’d lost an hour to flipping through the pages, complete with diagrams and sassy step-by-step “how to” advice, but who’d climb behind the wheel of a Lamborghini after only reading a driver’s ed manual?

  “Let me touch you,” he says, open desire making his eyes more mesmerizing than normal.

  I take hold of his shaft at the root and lick my lips, making sure they are wet. He jerks in my hand as I bend down.

  “Holy God,” he grinds out when I lower my mouth to him. I go easy at first, gentle and tentative, trying not to do anything overly ticklish. There’s some time needed to get comfortable and figure out basic mechanics. When I am confident I’ve found the right rhythm, and my teeth are safely locked down behind my lips, I increase the pressure. Bran cries out, grinds his hips in a silent plea for more.

  “Talia.” He groans my name and it’s more husky, more everything.

  My nervousness fades as I begin to enjoy the smooth, firm feel of him on the back of my tongue. I take him in slow, long strokes, all the way to the base. This is good. I got this. My eyes open. Bran stares directly into my face. Something electric passes between us. I keep working, not breaking the contact. There is a heat to his hooded expression that puts my entire body in a fever state. I’m torn. I want to keep going; I want to get him off with nothing more than my mouth and tongue. But I want him inside me so bad, taking us both to the place we want to go.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bran

  Talia’s mouth is on me. My brain is only capable of producing microbursts of information on a rapid-fire loop. Want. Her. Want. Her. Want. Her. Want. Her. Want. Her.

  Her hand surrounds my shaft, working me in time to her lips. My mental processing is having a malfunction. I’m brain-dead, but fuck it’s a good death. Talia doesn’t touch me like she knows what works and wants to show off her skills. Her strokes are a little awkward, some border rough, others softer than how I prefer. But this is Talia, and that makes every touch good—better than good.

  I haven’t laid a finger on her since that afternoon we got down at my house last month. Of course, I’ve wanted to. The evidence’s right there in the epic blue balls I’ve endured to spend time in her presence. But sex, the act messes things up. Take Bella—she was cool, almost a friend. We fooled around a few times, then—bam—she wants more, wants what I can’t give.

  I like Talia way more than Bella, or any girl since…well, in a while. She’s sweet beneath the prickly sarcasm, and then there are those glimpses of fragility that practically undo me. I don’t want to use her for an easy, forget-my-life hookup, risk messing up what we—oh…oh, Jesus.

  Talia readjusts her speed and pressure based on the way I rock into her mouth. Her whole technique recalibrates, and everything good grows exponentially better. I try not to thrust my hips, almost impossible now that she takes me deeper, sucks harder, works her tongue until my cock can’t harden anymore. My balls pull tight, start to tingle. I’m close. The intensity builds to jaw-clenching levels.

  Not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet, oh, fuck, too late. Thundercats are go.

  I yank from her mouth and flip away, coming onto the sheets in a violent burst that nearly levitates me off the bed. I should speak, say something, but my vocal cords forgot how to work.

  Talia sits back on her knees; her breasts—smallish but perfectly shaped—rise and fall as she takes a deep breath. Her lips are a little swollen from me. That idea is something I could get used to.

  I grab her hand, pull her on top of me.

  “Why did you do that?”

  She wants to know why I pulled out. Why I hold back. How do I tell her the truth without sounding like a total pussy?

  Here’s the reason—because if I let her in, I don’t know how I’ll ever let her go.

  * * *

  Talia kicks off her thongs, dangles her feet off the edge of Portsea Pier. She leans over, checking out the shells clinging to the pylons below the surface. Kelp surges with the waves while the world below fades into a murky emerald. I resist the urge to wrap my arm around her waist, steady her, and keep her safe. Not sure where this protective instinct comes from, I’m normally not the kind of guy who frets around like a nervous Nellie.

  Between us is an open packet of fish and chips. I select two, dip them in tomato sauce, and raise them to her lips.

  She gives me a funny smile. “Two?”

  “Stick with me, baby. I know what you like.” She bites the chips from my fingers and ducks her head, as if that wall of hair will hide the blush flooding her cheeks, washing down her neck. I don’t know why she added the new shiny red streaks. I mean, they look cool, don’t get me wrong, but she’s
perfect the way she is.

  And these cheese-dick thoughts make me want to stab myself in the eye.

  For some reason, everything Talia does—even the way she eats her food—is fascinating. We’ve done everything but have sex. For whatever reason, I’m more nervous about that than a virgin. I’m a fucking coward, scared of another girl from a faraway place who holds nothing but the promise of a dead-end future. I’m not strong enough to face that shit storm again.

  So I stay away, but not too far, like an abused dog who hovers a few feet back, desperate for a pat but runs off if one looks forthcoming.

  Talia’s little black shorts ride high on her inner thighs. I love the hint of curve in her legs, and those blue-painted toes threaten to slay me. Even her ankles are nothing short of perfection. I grab my wet suit and sling it across my lap to hide my hard-on.

  For fuck’s sake, cool it, dude.

  * * *

  A half hour later we are suited up, dorked out in snorkels and fins.

  I take her hand. “You ready?”

  “How cold is the water again?”

  “Warmer than the Arctic.”

  “That’s not a glowing recommendation.” She squeezes my hand. “Okay, let’s do this, before I change my mind.”

  “One, two, three.” She leaps with me and we plunge off the pier. The water is frigid, creating the perfect habitat for the hundreds of marine species surrounding us. The pier’s not deep, only five or six meters, ideal conditions to get up close and personal with the trevally, blue devils, zebra fish, rays, and there—I tap Talia on the shoulder and point.

  A weedy sea dragon swims toward us, flitting through the kelp to keep camouflaged. The long orange-red body resembles a seahorse except for the leaflike appendages and short spikes lining its back.

  We tread together, paddling only when necessary to maintain our position against the current. Here, in this strange world, time slows, life is diluted to the rhythm of tide and waves. I reach out and take Talia’s hand, wishing for an irrational second to sprout gills and swim with her down to the ocean’s deep, indigo places. Find a mermaid kingdom and hide from the world forever. The sea dragon studies us for a long moment before darting into the shadows.

  Talia flicks the snorkel from her mouth. “Oh my God.” Her eyes are almost as wide as her smile. “That was incredible. Mystical almost.”

  “Magic.” I stroke closer to her, closing our distance, unable to resist her happy glow. Talia’s hair plasters to her cheeks; she’s enchanting, a sea witch who’s cast a spell on me. Her back hits one of the pilings, and we’re beneath the pier, shielded from the tourists promenading overhead, with dragons lurking beneath our fins. I kiss her hard, openmouthed, and don’t hold back the groan when her tongue flicks over mine, still a little shy.

  I drop my hands below her arms to brace her, keep her well above the low sets gently rolling by to crash onshore. She wiggles closer and I silently curse our wet suits keeping us from true skin-to-skin contact. Talia’s bikini is skimpy and black, exactly how I like a girl’s suit. I’d love to pull the string in the back, watch as the top slowly slides off. Since the three-inch neoprene renders that fantasy impossible, I use my mouth to cover every inch of her exposed neck, her high cheekbones, her brow, each of the six freckles dappling the tip of her nose.

  “Am I your girlfriend?” Talia sounds offhand, but her eyes tell me she’s dead serious.

  “Girlfriend?” The word sends a jolt down my spine. “Well…you’re a girl and a friend.”

  “So, no, then?” Her smile vanishes. “I mean, are we seeing each other, seeing other people?”

  “Do you want to see other people?”

  And if so, who? Tell me so I can beat the shit out of them if they look at you sideways.

  “Do you?” Her downturned lips twitch in the corner. She struggles to smile, and to watch that effort makes me feel helpless. I don’t want to expose myself, but fuck if I’ll hurt her.

  “Since I’ve seen you, Talia”—I pause, clearing my throat—“it’s been pretty fucking impossible to see anyone else.”

  Her fingers thread my hair, bringing my mouth close to hers. “So why do you do this?”

  “I love kissing you.”

  “Me too.” She continues to speak through more kisses. “But I mean you keep away, push me back, and then out of the blue act like you want to eat me. It’s confusing.”

  I flinch, force myself to stare right in her dilated pupils. “Not going to lie, Talia. I want you every way you have to give.”

  “So why the distance, the hot and cold?”

  “It’s where I’m at right now. I’m trying to figure my shit out, but it’s knotted and going to take time. I don’t want to use you.”

  She lowers her lashes. “What if I want to be used?”

  Fucking hell.

  I do this thing with my mouth on her ear that she loves. “When you talk like that, Captain, you’re asking for trouble.”

  “Your kind of trouble doesn’t sound too bad.”

  How long would it take to strip us from our wet suits, fuck her hard and frantic, the exact way my dick is demanding?

  Instead I drop my hand between her legs. With the thick fabric between us, I’m not sure how this will go, but if her ache is anything like mine, we’ll do all right. From the way her neck falls back, revealing her tanned throat, and the rapidly pulsing vein, her need is bad.

  I rub her, kiss her in the way I don’t have words for, and soon her breath is quick, cute, and she’s beating me on the chest.

  “Stop, stop.”

  I halt. “What’s wrong?”

  She takes a gulp of air. “You act like coming is such a big deal. I wanted you to stop. See how it made me feel.”

  “And…”

  Her laugh is shaky. “It sucks. The worst thing ever.”

  I put my hand back on her and she screws her eyes, grabs my neck, and hangs tight while I take her exactly where she wants to go, where I long to be, if I can gather my courage to take the ride.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Talia

  I’m late to meet Bran for coffee at the Sunday market at Abbotsford Convent, a converted nunnery renovated into an arts and cultural space. Since Easter break, we’ve hung out every day. We’ve also reached an unspoken agreement to avoid the Bean Counter, although Bella’s moved on, now dating a bike messenger. Even with that development, we typically meet here, in my bare little room, mostly because I don’t have half-naked bouncers stoned on the sofa at any given hour. We kiss, wander each other’s bodies, but always pull back.

  Or rather, he pulls back.

  I don’t know why, but sleeping with me doesn’t seem high on his list of priorities. He says he’s got stuff to figure out, but what if he doesn’t want me as bad? I have no option except to break out Leora night after night. Even my faithful vibrating friend does little to soothe the leg-humping monkey inside. I crave this guy like a drug.

  My phone buzzes. It’s him. The message is typical and to the point.

  ?

  Sorry, on my way! Looking for my wallet.

  My computer dings. Crap. Mom’s calling on Skype. Impeccable timing as always.

  I toy with the idea of ignoring her, except I’ve avoided direct contact for a few weeks and that runs the risk of the police showing up at my door to excavate my mummified corpse. Mom can front like she’s chillax all she wants, but I know the real truth.

  Deep down, we’re both anxious disasters.

  I click the red answer button. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Oh, look, you’re actually there. Aloha.” Her image comes online. Whoa, my stomach drops at her weight loss. Her cheekbones are oversharp, her smile brittle. She must weigh a hundred pounds dripping wet. She’s still beautiful, but a wraith. What the hell is going on over there?

  She leans in close. “Can you see me?”

  “Yes.” More than I want. I twist my hands on my lap. Exhale. I can only control what I can control. And right now, that’s
my next breath.

  The showy white flower tucked behind her left ear doesn’t distract from bruised purple half moons under her eyes. She’s visibly exhausted.

  “Talia!” Her nose practically touches the screen. “What are you doing with your hair now?”

  “You likey?” I rumple my locks. Marti recently added a few auburn streaks.

  “It’s different.” She takes a slow sip from her ever-present teacup.

  Nope, she doesn’t likey.

  I pray for patience. “So, how’s it going? What are you up to?”

  “I’m just back from Logan’s. He made lunch after Tai Chi.”

  Actual food food or a big, tasty bowl of tropical air?

  “How’s Australia?” she asks.

  “Good. Great.” Where to start—school? The weather? Marti? Definitely not Bran—that’s no-go TMI territory.

  “Okay, terrific. Super.” She plucks a split end.

  “Yeah.” Guess I don’t have to start anywhere. She doesn’t care about my life. What I’m doing here. She probably has “Contact sole surviving offspring” penciled in between Reiki appointments and ecstatic dance class.

  Mom deludes herself into believing she can transcend grief. She doesn’t want to get her hands dirty rifling through the pain and pointlessness of Pippa’s death. Let her ramble about personal journeys and the universal law of attraction until her tongue snaps off. It won’t change the fundamental truth.

  We’re all going to die at some point. The end. It’s that terrifyingly simple.

  “I’m baking my pineapple upside-down cake this afternoon for Logan. His birthday is tomorrow.”

  But will you eat it? That’s what I want to ask, instead I say, “How old’s he turning?”

  Does the Wunderchimp know she’ll puke up every bite? I used to hear her in the bathroom, making herself vomit, even as she ran the water to mask the retches. She’s clearly not given up that crap given that she looks like a rainbow ghost in her flowing Indian cotton and fresh-cut flowers.