Chapter 32 #2
A critical component of any diet-breaking episode is lacking. But I have faith that Reed’s kitchen won’t let me down in my time of need and missing inhibitions.
Determined to locate my precious, I slide the canned goods to the side, then knock over a cereal box.
“For the love of Cookie Monster, I demand you present what I crave the most!”
Quaking in fear, the pantry yields to my powerful manifestation.
And there it is. The bane of my existence and the object of my every desire.
Nutter Butter cookies.
Not as good as homemade, but they’ll do.
Houston, we are go for gluttony.
I retrieve the cookies, holding them up like the presentation of Simba. “Ladies, gents, and ghosts of unknown gender, I present to thee, the Holy Grail.”
Scooping up the rest of my loot, I sashay to the couch and prepare to stuff my face gleefully.
Obviously, I start with the cookies. After downing three of them, potentially without chewing, I unwrap the cheese block. With the top inch exposed, I glance between the kitchen and the cheese three times. No knife to slice it.
I could get up and get one, but that seems excessive, doesn’t it? With the walking and all. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to wield the Force to levitate a utensil to me, so I’ll need to eat the disappointing cheese another way.
Related: Who buys mild cheddar when sharp or even medium exists? That’s the Reediest thing in this entire apartment. He probably nibbles it on untoasted, butterless, white bread. That poor man. Without me to give him pizazz, he’s the personification of the color beige.
Shrugging, I take a bite straight from the block. Then one more to ensure it’s still bland. Unfortunately, it is. After abandoning the subpar fromage on the coffee table, I move onto the sour cream. When I pop off the lid, I’m smacked with the pungent stench of spoiled dairy.
It’s already sour, but this is a bit too sour for my tastes.
So much for my grand plan of smearing sour cream and ketchup on the block of cheese and swallowing it down with an olive and cracker chaser.
“Life is a cruel mistress.”
I flip through the Netflix menu like something new will suddenly appear. I pick a Nate Bargatze standup routine. After polishing off a sleeve of cookies, I lean my head against the cushion, stretch my arms overhead, and beam toward the ceiling. “Fucking cookies are the best,” I tell the ghosts.
From this position, I get a whiff of my armpits. “Oof! Mama Mia. Maybe it wasn’t the sour cream after all.”
I’m ripe from the hours we spent birding. I need to remove this odor from my person. It’s killing my buzz.
Am I going to undress and use Reed’s shower? A place where he has also been naked?
Yes. Yes, I am.
I’ll hurry through it so I’m not naked when he returns.
Five minutes later, I’ve already moved on from shampoo to conditioner. I’m so focused on this shower, you wouldn’t believe it. Like I’ve been showering all my life.
Confession time. I don’t know if it was five or thirty-five minutes. Time is funny in this altered state. Let’s just call it ten and leave it at that. Cool?
While the conditioner soaks into my tresses, I squeeze body gel into my hand and work up a lather. Oh, juicy grapefruit in the morning. This stuff smells like Reed. Is this Heaven?
“No, it’s Iowa.”
I snort-giggle, then unabashedly rub Reed’s gel all over my body, inhaling his familiar scent into my lungs with vigor.
Hands roaming my slippery flesh, I hum to mystery music.
When my palms graze my sudsy nipples, I’m blasted with a potent wave of arousal that makes my thighs slam together. Involuntarily, my hips rock back and forth, blindly searching for friction to ease the burgeoning ache.
Apparently, I’m at the state of highness when you need to grind air, which I didn’t know was a thing.
Perhaps it’s because I’m naked in Reed’s nakey-nakey place with his scent surrounding me in the warm, misty air.
Regardless of what’s causing this sudden horniness outbreak, it must be sated. Now.
“Avert your eyes, Casper.”
One hand speeds to my breast to pluck my nipple.
The other makes a beeline to my needy clit.
I don’t waste time with slow circles or light caresses.
Whatever magic is in this shower has primed me for instantaneous release.
I go straight to hard and fast rubs. Back and forth, up and down, side to side.
I work my clit like it’s my job, and I’m a fantastic employee, destined to take over the company one day.
“Oh, yes, yes, yesss,” I ramble in ecstasy, unable to modulate my volume. The echo of my panting breaths and whimpers reverberates off the shower walls, which both embarrasses me and heightens my arousal.
I’ve never been so out of control and desperate for orgasm.
My hips thrash wildly, making it hard for my fingertips to keep flicking my clit in the right spot. I force the bucking to slow enough for me to lock in on the swollen bundle of nerves.
Yes, there it is.
Like I’m possessed, I grind my fingers over my clit, hurdling toward the precipice. “So good. So good.”
A coil of pleasure explodes deep in my core, firing tendrils of heat in all directions. Gibberish flies from my mouth on pillows of airy moans as I convulse and spasm into sweet oblivion.
Gradually, the aftershocks ebb, and my breathing returns to normal. Dang, that was powerful.
And unexpected.
If I were on speaking terms with Kenzie, I would ask her if it’s normal to go from zero to explosively needy after one gummy.
Since she’s as untrustworthy as farting in white pants while you’ve got the stomach flu, I’ll consult the big G once I get dried, dressed, and locate my phone.
When I exit the shower, I draw the half heart on the foggy mirror like always, then become irrationally disappointed at the towel situation.
Poor Reed, surviving in these conditions. Mild cheddar and no towel warmer. Must be a struggle to go on each day. No wonder he’s a grump.
Despite the room-temperature plush cotton, my skin tingles everywhere it caresses away the water droplets. Next thing I know, my hips are pulsing.
Again?
As if answering my unspoken question, lust spikes suddenly. Another wave crashes against me, then another. My entire body is practically vibrating.
Maybe this will stop once I get dressed. I wrap the towel around me and dash into Reed’s closet, hoping he has a shirt large enough for me.
I squeeze into an XL cotton tee and complete the ensemble with boxer briefs I swipe from his dresser drawer.
I reluctantly peek in the bedroom mirror, and instantly long for death. The shirt pulls absurdly tight across my chest. And I’m muffin topping the heck out of his boxers. I look like someone put a belt on the jelly guy from Monsters vs. Aliens.
For an extra serving of self-loathing fuel, I bend forward. The elastic waistband has no choice but to fold on itself, rolling over and playing dead. My belly spills out.
Nothing like fatting out of a pair of bottoms.
Welp. So much for this outfit.
I dart into the bathroom, swiping my dirty clothes off the floor. One whiff makes me gag.
All that time birding in a Florida swamp came at a stinky price.
Wonder if Reed has a washer and dryer?
I look at my wrist to check the time, then remember I don’t wear a watch. And if I did, I wouldn’t have worn it in the shower. The ghosts and I laugh at my idiocy.
Reed should be here soon. There’s no way to clean and dry my clothes in time without a portal to a magical realm. And I left mine at home.
While washing them like a mortal, I’ll need to hide under the covers until I hear the dryer buzz. By then, Reed will be here, and I can ask him to fetch them by batting my eyelashes or promising him a hand job.
I quickly search the condo, finding a laundry closet. “Woo hoo!”
His key clicks into the front door lock two seconds after I start the speed wash cycle. In a rush, I power walk into his bedroom and turn off the big light. Before the thump of the front door closing echoes, I’ve already hidden under the covers.
Since I’m still feeling the effects of the gummy, I giggle the entire time.
“Lila, I’m home.”
His voice fills me with contentment.
“I’m in your room,” I call back.
Fuzzy panic sets in when I realize my earlier joke about his bed making me climax might come true.
Now that my sensitive skin is swaddled in these lush sheets, the pulsing between my legs drowns out every other thought.
All I can think is: Must come. Must come.
By the time I notice Reed’s footsteps approaching, I’m panting like I’ve been chasing the ghosts around the condo for three hours. My hips won’t stop rocking. And I’m warm absolutely everywhere.
As Reed eases into his room, I force myself to impersonate a log. It doesn’t work for long because unbeknownst to me, my hand has slipped into the slot in the front of his boxers. The ones I’m wearing, not the ones on him. However, if he gets within swiping distance, I’m liable to get in those too.
Mother Nature wouldn’t have given me two hands if she didn’t want me to use them.
Clueless to my lustful state, he smiles an easy greeting at me. “Hey, cookie. Everything go okay?”
I bend my knees, hoping the makeshift comforter tent will hide what’s happening down there until I get myself under control. “Yep. All good.”
No chance he heard the restraint in my voice, making it quiver.
“We’ve got lots to talk about, but I’m gonna savor this view first.” He strides to me, braces himself with a hand on my pillow, and lowers for a kiss. “You look beautiful in my bed.”
Sweet. But delusional.
I didn’t even comb my hair when I got out of the shower. It’s still tied up in a towel turban.
His proximity and the brief brush of our lips trigger yet another arousal surge that forces my eyes closed. He doesn’t linger, which is either good or bad for my predicament.
I watch him cross the room, wondering if I can make myself come before he turns around.
If I had my blue vibrator, I bet I could. Instead, I’m using my fingers like a peasant.
The light from the bathroom isn’t shining as brightly near the closet, concealing his movements. But I get the sense he’s removing all his hot guy paraphernalia.
“I see you took my advice and made yourself at home.” His badge, handcuffs, and wallet plop onto the dresser. “Glad you found the cookies. I bought them on the off chance that one day you’d be here to eat them.”
Listen, that’s really sweet of him. So precious. Normally, I’d be swooning. I’d also be hiding in shame due to the munchie debris I left on the coffee table. But mostly the first thing.
Tonight, though? His affection is making me hornier, which didn’t seem possible until he appeared in the room, looking like a lawful Adonis. Without his grumpy side to offset his sexiness, my toes will be curling momentarily.
Barely able to stifle my whimpers, I grit out, “Sorry about the mess. I was gonna clean that up.”
He loosens the straps on the sides of his FBI vest, lifting it over his head. “It’s fine. I’m just relieved you’re safe and comfortable in my space. I like you being here.”
Since he’s still facing away from me, I blur my fingers over my clit as fast as I can.
He disappears into his closet, and I soon detect the sound of fabric rustling to the carpet.
Seizing the opportunity, I leap toward my climax, right then and there.
Unfortunately, he pops out of his closet before I crest the peak. I stop battering my clit so he doesn’t catch me masturbating in his bed. My eyes pinch shut as my orgasm hovers unfulfilled.
I’m going to crawl out of my skin.
When I force my heavy-lidded eyes open, Reed’s barely dressed body is inching toward me. Yet I can’t take the time to appreciate the view.
“Did you get new tattoos?” I ask, hoping to distract us both.
The attempt fails. Likely because of how breathy I sound.
His face conveys a mix of concern and curiosity. He sits on the bed and cups my cheek. “You don’t sound so good. Are you in pain? Upset? Sick? Talk to me.”
“I-um-I . . .”
Since I didn’t remove my hand from my clit, all it takes is one involuntary hip thrust, and I explode. The moan of pleasure I’ve been biting back launches out of me.
His eyes quadruple in size.
Instead of a little death, I wish for the real one. Kill me now.
I’ve just been busted bopping the bean like a pervert.