Chapter 15 Wyatt
WYATT
I SHOULD STOP.
I mean, obviously I should stop.
I have my hand around my dick and Blake Logan’s eyes on it. No way this ends well. Figuratively anyway. Jacking off always ends great for me.
Although I know it’s wrong, I can’t look away.
She’s too far to make out all those unique little details of her face that haunt my fantasies.
Like the stormy gray flecks swimming among the sky-blue.
The freckles peppering her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
She has freckles on her chest too, scattered across her collarbone and the swells of her breasts.
I picture her perfect pink nipples, and the memory of them has me thrusting harder into my hand.
Up on the deck, Blake parts her lips, and now I’m picturing them wrapped around me. She’s standing at the railing, but in my mind, she’s kneeling in front of me, and instead of fucking my hand, I’m fucking her mouth. That sweet little O suctioned tight around the head of my cock.
She watches me, mesmerized. This is wrong on so many levels, but I don’t care. Common sense has fled, replaced by the heat coursing through my veins as all the blood in my body sizzles down to my hard dick.
Lukewarm water from the showerhead streams over my chest and down my body. I fight the urge to speed up, because if I finish now, this moment has to end, and I want her to keep watching. This might be the hottest thing I’ve ever jerked off to, and she’s not even naked.
I bite my lip to stifle a groan, but it slips out anyway. With Blake’s eyes glued to me, I squeeze my swollen head, and precome spills out. My cock is wet and glistening as I thrust into my fist, gliding it up and down my shaft.
Look at it, baby, I silently plead at her. See what you do to me.
I feel it building. The arousal, the impending orgasm. Pulling my balls tight to my body. I’m on the verge of coming, but I’m not ready, so I slow my strokes, careful not to push myself over the edge.
My breathing escapes in shorter gasps now.
Head spinning. All I can focus on is the pleasure, which is only intensified by the fact that Blake is witnessing this.
My balls ache, and I lock my fist tight around me, forcing my wet cock through my fingers, pretending I’m fucking her mouth, her pussy, anything she lets me.
Screw it.
I need to come.
I want her to see.
I quicken my strokes, and within seconds, I’m shuddering with release, waves of pleasure pulsing through my body until I’m heaving for breath.
I shoot everywhere. All over my hand, my abs.
Ropes of come spill out of my fist onto the ground.
I keep stroking through the mind-blowing climax, squeezing every last drop out, while Blake watches with big eyes.
I’m spent by the time the orgasm ebbs. My dick stays hard, though. He wants to go again. I don’t blame him. That was just a tease.
I suck in a ragged breath and push my hair out of my face before turning to shut off the water. When I turn back, the deck is empty. Blake is gone.
We act like nothing happened.
Maybe not the most mature approach, but it seems to suit both of us. I grill burgers and Blake makes potato salad, and we eat on the deck. And while I clear the table and do the dishes, she stays at the table, reading a book she checked out from the library.
“Any Darlie developments?” I ask after I’m done cleaning up.
She looks up, causing her high ponytail to swing over her shoulder. As usual, I’m dying to take her hair down. Even more so now that I’ve actually touched it. Now that I know how silky it feels between my fingers.
I lied to her this morning. I was going to kiss her. I was seconds away from kissing her senseless in fact. It was a miracle that I managed to resist the lure, but I’m glad I did. I stayed up all night writing because of that. There’s something to be said for blue balls and bone-deep longing.
Still, I need to stop placing myself in the path of temptation like that.
I can’t afford any distractions right now, not when Tobey Dodson is going to be calling me any day to discuss my “new stuff.” So…
I need new stuff. I need to write. To concentrate on the music and not the freckle-faced temptress who decided to crash my summer.
Blake and I can be friends. Friendship is safe. No pressure, no expectations, just sharing the occasional meal together, playing badminton—
Jerking off in front of her, mocks an inner voice.
All right. In hindsight, that wasn’t the smartest move of mine. But it was just a little slip. Sometimes friends pull their dicks out and come all over themselves while another friend watches.
Your coping skills are unreal, that voice informs me.
Fucking fine. I crossed a line, just like on Christmas Eve two years ago. But that ends right now. Friendship commenced.
“This isn’t a Darlie book,” Blake says absently, flipping to the next page. “I’m reading about the history of jigsaw puzzles.”
Of course she is.
“Explain?” Grinning, I flop into the chair across from hers and light a cigarette.
Blake shrugs. “I was curious about how puzzles got popular, so I found a book about it. It’s actually supercool.”
“Cool and puzzles aren’t two words that really go together.”
“Says the guy who was doing the puzzle before I showed up.” She puts the book down.
“I just learned that the first puzzles weren’t even called puzzles.
They were called ‘dissected maps’ because this cartographer in the 1700s used to mount maps on a wooden board and then cut along the national boundary lines to create geography puzzles.
They used them in schools. How cool is that? ”
“Again, not using the word cool correctly,” I inform her, but I sort of love how excited she gets about these random topics. And truth be told, she does make them sound cooler when she explains them.
Her phone vibrates, and she leans forward to check it. Her face brightens. “Oh, nice. Little Spencer sent me a link to the latest episode of their podcast. I’m getting a sneak peek.”
“Is this podcast just the two of them sitting around talking about ghosts?” I pause for a moment. “Honest question—are we sure these dudes won’t break into our house in the middle of the night and try to kill us in order to create ghosts?”
“Pretty sure. But if they do, I’ll make sure they kill me first to buy you some time,” she says graciously.
I snicker. “Thank you. I appreciate that, freckles.”
“And the podcast isn’t exclusive to ghosts. It’s about anything supernatural, really. And it’s just Little Spencer talking.”
“He talks to himself?”
Blake grins. “Well, he talks to the audience. But yes. Big Spencer doesn’t like how his voice sounds on tape.” She picks up her book. “Anyway, I want to keep reading. What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“Writing. I’m gonna hole up in the sunroom. Probably skip dinner.”
She raises a brow at me. “Is it finally coming to you? The song?”
“Starting to,” I admit. “But don’t get your hopes up.”
“Nah, I’ll get my hopes up for the both of us. Go get that song, Graham.”
She flashes me one of those unbridled smiles, and I force myself to look away because I have no willpower when she smiles at me like that.
We go our separate ways for the rest of the afternoon.
I grab my guitar and escape to the sunroom at the side of the house.
Fueled by a smile, I scribble lyrics and strum the melody I’ve been hearing in my head since we hiked to the sex tree.
It’s got so much potential that I do something I rarely do.
I pull out my phone and record myself singing it, then send the raw file to Cole for an opinion.
Because holy shit.
This song…might be good.
Later that night, I reward myself for a solid day’s work by swiping a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet. It’s my mom’s favorite and stupidly expensive, but I don’t think she’ll mind if I indulge.
Balancing a tumbler on my knee, I settle into a chair on the deck and gaze out at the quiet lake. A faint breeze carries the scent of pine and campfire smoke. Someone is having a fire nearby. But all I can smell is the sharp, warm burn of whiskey.
“Can I have some of that?”
Blake curls up in the chair beside me, holding out an empty glass. I eye it for a second before shrugging. Whatever. I can’t keep policing her. Besides, from what I’ve seen so far, she barely drinks, and when she does, she knows her limits. I slosh some amber liquid into her glass, then sip mine.
A comfortable silence settles between us. We drink our whiskey, staring at the water. Our floating swim dock is barely moving, that’s how still the lake is tonight.
“What were you thinking about when you were jerking off?”
I almost choke on my drink.
Shit. Here I was, mentally patting her on the back for handling her alcohol so well. Turns out you give Blake Logan one whiskey and she’s asking about my jerk-off fantasies.
“Yeah…” I keep my gaze straight ahead. “Not telling you that.”
“Come on, tell me. What were you thinking about?”
You. On your knees. Sucking me dry.
I take another gulp of whiskey. “Nope,” I say firmly.
“Do you remember when you were annoying me in the kitchen?”
“Which time?”
“Any time I’m cooking. But I’m talking about the night you called me bossy.”
I don’t remember at all, but clearly it was memorable enough for her to bring it up again. When she continues, I realize why it flagged in her memory.
“You said you liked bossy girls as long as it was out of bed.” Blake polishes off her drink and reaches for the bottle, but I lean in and grab it before she can.
“No. You’re cut off.”
“One more,” she protests.
“Half a shot.”
I pour a scant amount of whiskey into her glass. She glares at me but accepts the compromise. As she sips, I feel her gaze boring into the side of my face.
“So you’re the bossy one in bed?” she prompts. “You like taking charge?”
I groan, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “I am not having this conversation with you.”
“Why not?”
“Blake…” Her name leaves my mouth, but I don’t know if it’s a warning or a plea.
“What? It’s not like I’m asking for a demonstration. Why can’t we talk about this?”
“Because you and I…” I gesture between us. “We’re friends. I’m not about to ruin that by telling you things I shouldn’t.”
“Friends talk about sex. Come on. Bossy how? Bossy like handcuffs and safe words?”
My groin throbs at the images her words just conjured.
Blake handcuffed to my bed. Begging for my dick.
I exhale slowly, already regretting what I’m about to say next. “I don’t know. Bossy like intense. I’m not laid-back, not when it comes to sex. I like it when the woman I’m with gives me everything.”
“What do you mean everything? Like anal?”
I burst out laughing. Jesus Christ.
“No,” I say between chuckles. “I mean, sure, if she wants it, I’m happy to accommodate.
But I mean everything as in not just physically.
” My voice becomes gruff as a strange sensation moves through my chest. “I want…trust. Vulnerability. I want her to look me in the eye, to be right there with me. No walls. I want every thought, every look, every breath focused on me and what I’m making her feel. ”
I notice Blake’s hand trembling as she picks up her glass and gulps down some whiskey. “Oh. That does sound intense.”
“Yeah.” I lick my lips. Her eyes stay on me, pinning me in place. “I don’t want half of someone. I want all of them. Mind, body, all of it. That’s what gets me hard.”
Jesus, I sound like a dick. I’ve never articulated any of this before, but now that I hear it, it triggers a pang of shame, this notion of asking someone to give me everything and then bailing afterward.
I reciprocate in the moment, though. I do.
I never ask for anything I’m not willing to give in return.
I just…don’t stay.
I notice that Blake’s cheeks are flushed, either from the whiskey or my words. Hopefully the former. I don’t want to turn her on. Well, I do, but I also don’t. God. This girl does my fucking head in.
“That’s not bossy,” she says, and her voice isn’t too steady. “That’s just honest.”
My fingers tighten around my glass. “Yeah. I guess that’s what I want. Honesty. I want someone who will let me see all of them.”
“That’s…not a bad thing.”
I don’t miss the way her tits rise as she sucks in a breath. The whiskey has loosened my tongue, and I can’t stop the next words from tumbling out.
“You’d hate it,” I say roughly. “You’d hate me like that. It’s too much.”
I can’t look away from her, not when she’s watching me with those big blue eyes. Even when I know I’m showing more of myself than I want.
“You’d hate how much I’d want from you. How much I’d take.”
Her gaze doesn’t leave mine. “What makes you think I’d hate that?”
I hear my pulse thundering in my ears. I need to pull out of this tailspin. Now. This is not friendship etiquette.
“It’s getting late,” I say, scraping back my chair. “I wanted to turn in early tonight, try to get some real sleep. Night, freckles.”