Page 11

Chapter 11

A sking Jack to help me was the riskiest yet best decision in my twenty-six years of living. The evidence of its success was in the word count of my current work in progress which seemed to increase exponentially whenever he even breathed in my direction. But, what I didn’t anticipate was the threat to my heart which increased when he did things like kiss me as though I were his only source of oxygen.

This one was different from last night. Where last night was laced with a heat, which on my part was twenty years in the making, tonight was like molten poetry. Each flick of his tongue against my own, intentional, each whisper of his hands against my back, precise.

I’d asked for examples. To make me feel so I could create something I’d never experienced. But what I was getting was a demonstration from a maestro who was destined to play only for me. It was no wonder he turned heads wherever he went, when his touch was the only thing to clear my ever running mind. When he was on me like this, there was no space for fear or uncertainty. No room for over-thinking, he consumed every fibre of my being.

With the stars above and the waves below, he tasted and took from me as though I was the antivenom to loneliness. And unable to contain myself, I met his vitality with vigour, acutely aware of our expiration date. Desperate to take whatever I could, while I could.

I longed to feel his skin under my hands, trace his chest with my finger trips, drawing patterns of our favourite constellations on his body. My own body thrummed with need, recharging and drawing on him as though he were my only source of life.

When my hands brushed his waist underneath his shirt, his response was electric, amplifying my need. I explored his back, nearly panting into his mouth at the way the definition of his muscles felt better than I ever could have imagined. The way he mapped my body by running his hands down my back and grabbing hold of my backside before pulling me into him.

The encouragement of how hard he was only incited me further as he walked me backwards up the beach, our mouths never parting until I reefed his shirt over his head, discarding it on the sand before throwing myself at him again.

As if I needed to track his entire being with my touch, my physical exploration of his chest only solidified everything I’d always thought.

He was flawless.

And Christ if he didn’t smell like seductive leather. I wanted to coat myself in his scent like an uniced cake. Who needed oxygen anyway?

“I need to taste you.” He said against my mouth and I felt my eyes widen in shock, my nipples so hard they throbbed. He reached for his shirt, shaking off the sand and laying it down carefully before he gestured for me to sit.

I obeyed instantly, drunk on the impending pleasure.

Dropping to his knees in front of me, he ran his hands up my legs which instinctively parted, his eyes coveting my body.

I leant back on my elbows, lifting my hips when he reached for my panties, easily gliding them down my legs. His eyes tracking the movement in the single most seductive moment of my life.

I knew I was already wet, his tongue in my mouth enough to cause heat to pool between my legs and I tried to pull my skirt down a little, suddenly embarrassed.

“Don’t,” he snapped and when I caught his gaze, I moaned softly. The desire was unmistakable and I stopped, letting him have his fill, just as I’d dreamed of doing for longer than I cared to admit.

“You make me ache,” he grumbled, before descending beneath my skirt. He parted me with his fingers before I felt the lightest flicker of his tongue against my flesh, eliciting a shiver from the deepest part of my soul.

Holy fire of hell.

My legs fell all the way open, my arms no longer able to hold myself up when he brought my clit into his mouth and sucked, his fingers pressing at my entrance.

“Jack,” I moaned, my hips rising of their own accord needing more friction and as always he read me as if I were written just for him. He circled my opening with his finger before entering me as his tongue flicked across my bud. His other hand gliding up my stomach and reaching for my breast with a squeeze which made me spasm with need. I ripped the straps of my shirt down, freeing my chest from the confines of my bra as he paused to look up.

“Oh, fuck.” He huffed, his fingers still swirling inside me as he moved up my body to take my nipple between his teeth. My heart hammered as his tongue circled my chest, his caress broken only with declarations of how much he loved my taste, how perfect I was or how he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

Me either .

Pressing another heated kiss to my mouth, he descended south – taunting me with languidly slow strokes while his finger moved in and out glacially.

He studied my body, repeating actions he sensed I liked, which at this point felt like every flick, touch or taste.

The animalistic groans he made when he dipped his tongue inside set my blood on fire, my ears ringing as he began pumping his hand in and out of me with renewed intensity.

I whimpered, my body writhing in the sand desperately, ravenous for the entirety of this man. Hooking his free hand around my hip, he yanked me down wolfishly as my body tingled with what I knew was imminent.

The curl of his finger inside me was my detonation, an explosion of senses as I erupted against his mouth, his name a call of pleasure out to the otherwise abandoned beach. The rumbling waves a backing track to the final act erupting just beyond its reach.

He encouraged my pleasure, lapping at my swollen pussy as I shook with the aftermath of what I would later realise was a fundamental moment of my life. The moment I realised the fall happened without my notice, like a shooting star disappearing before you’ve had the chance to really grasp the path it tracked across the night sky.

I’d fallen and it was hard, messy and unrequited.

I was in love with my best friend.

Docile comfortability came naturally when he was around. We laughed, shared our stories and fears – new and old – and basked in what was another chapter in our friendship, albeit entirely new. We swam in the pool, wandered the beach for shells and gazed at the stars at night, talking until one of us could no longer hold their eyes open. We shared lunches with his parents, phone calls with mine – which included seeing my divine new niece, Amelia – and quick trips into town, but mostly, it was just the two of us – sympatico as we’d always found ourselves together.

The break was easy, freeing and wholesome.

My emotional infatuation with Jack was a no brainer, he was intelligent, empathetic, thoughtful and he understood me on a level no one else ever could.

I always knew he was my soul mate.

What was new though, was the level of physical attraction I felt. At every waking moment I wanted to taste him, have his face between my legs and ride his mouth until I came. Although frustratingly, for the past two weeks since the night on the beach, he’d kept our time together purely platonic.

I would head off to bed each night, hungry for a meal only he could provide. I would bring myself to release with memories of his touch, the explosion of cells when he pushed his fingers inside me and the rough glide of his tongue on flesh.

My writing stats had never been better and Your Assistant, as I’d recently coined my manuscript, was spicier than a jalapeno popper. Scenes I could never have imagined, practically wrote themselves to visions of Jack.

Yet, away from the typewriter, I felt flat. Petulant. Irrationally angry. And hiding the reason behind this irritability was getting more difficult. I was a stroppy, horny teenager who wasn’t getting her way although doing nothing to even try to rectify that because I couldn’t even fathom where to begin.

Banging my hands against the keys, I sighed in frustration at the current scene I was writing — the standard third-act break up which was usually ironically loaded with unspoken declarations of love.

I needed a snack or a night-cap, something to distract me from my ever-hammering libido. Even my monthly visit from the dreaded Aunt Flo last week wasn’t enough to dull my need. If anything, it increased my desire as if it were annoyed that I hadn’t utilised the delectable human staying with me to bring forth an embryo. And now it had finished, I was acutely aware of what that meant — there were no reasons why we couldn’t continue what we started.

What was I going to do when he went back home again? I brushed the thought aside as I ninja style snuck past my beaded door curtain, refusing to wallow in a pain which would be here soon enough. Pausing at Jack’s closed door, I contemplated knocking and asking him to join me.

Instead quietly leaning my forehead against the closed door – metaphoric of how our entire lives played out. Always a partition, a boundary between us separating me from what I wanted most but was too afraid to reach. And now I’d tasted the forbidden fruit, it was the only thing I craved.

The soft mumblings of his voice cause my head to jolt, my ear pressed to the door quicker than I’d ever moved. Was he on the phone? Who was he talking to this late at night? Was there someone else? The thoughts sent heated waves of jealousy through my body, dissolving all the blood from my face, my palms growing clammy against the woodgrain.

Suddenly I was eavesdropping and breaching all forms of guest etiquette. My mother would be horrified.

I would judge myself for the grotesque invasion of privacy later when I wasn’t trying my hardest to decipher his murmurings as I held my breath, as if that would somehow enhance my hearing.

The sound was low, guttural almost and my ear flung from the door when I realised he wasn’t murmuring on the phone.

He was moaning.

I squeezed my thighs together as my brain conjured exactly what he was doing to incur those sounds, my body responding instantly.

Before I’d thought better of it, I knocked lightly and opened the door without awaiting a response.

Apparently I lacked any respect for boundaries now too. My lascivious heart was going to Hell with the rest of the world who interrupted people in the act of self-pleasure. He shot upright in bed, the sheet covering his lower half in a suspiciously tented manner. The small amounts of moonlight peeking through the open curtain was enough to showcase he wasn’t wearing a shirt. My eyes greedily charted his torso, over his tattoo I wanted to lick and the chest I wanted to trace.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. His initial response, like always, for my wellbeing.

I walked towards the bed and he gripped the sheet with both hands, probably terrified I would discover what he was so obviously doing – as if it wasn’t the reason I was standing in front of him, with incredibly wet panties and a throbbing sex which begged for satisfaction.

“Can I…” Oh my god. I couldn’t say the words.

What was I thinking? What was I actually thinking?

“Can you what?” He prompted, his voice deep, the sheet still struggling to conceal the evidence of his arousal and I used that as the courage I needed.

“Can I?” I gestured towards the sheet, unable to articulate exactly what I meant and his eyes widened briefly in understanding.

When he didn’t respond I knew this was my last chance. He left in a week and while I knew he would walk away, back to the life he created for himself, I would remain stagnant in Willow Bay. I needed to take my chance or I would live with the constant what if.

With forced confidence, I reached for the bottom of my tank top with both hands, pausing only long enough for him to tell me to stop, before pulling it over my head and pushing my sleep shorts down to my ankles.

The blanket of darkness gave me the conviction to stand before him, entirely naked as his sharp intake of breath pierced the air. He still didn’t speak and I wasn’t sure what that meant until he pulled the sheet back in an invitation I was never going to refuse.

Slipping under the cool sheets next to him, I rolled onto my side mirroring the position he was now laying.

The cicadas split the night air, the open window allowing a cool breeze to enter making sleep achievable despite the sweltering days.

“Win, I have no control with you,” he whispered, his body frozen.

I hadn’t seen him scared before. He was always the bold one, providing me with the confidence I needed in any situation. But tonight, I knew I would need to step forward and lead. He was never going to cross the line we had been teetering since the night he arrived.

I just hoped that his fear wasn’t because he didn’t want this, but like me, because the sheer need coursing through our veins was petrifying.

Pushing all self-doubt aside, I raised the sheet and took in his equally naked form.

My mouth went dry at the ferocity of need I felt at seeing him in such a way.

Thicker than I ever imagined, he was breathtakingly hard, his arousal calling for me in a primal way.

I wanted him to stretch me, fill me and curb the ache only he could and with that thought, I slowly pushed up and flung a leg over him, straddling his hips, my mouth inches from his own.

“You know the safe word,” I reminded him before my mouth was on his with the longing a fortnight without his touch and a lifetime of wanting it had elicited.