40. Liability （Reprise） #3
I’m drunk.
So I’m trying even harder to tune in.
‘Cause it sounds important.
Philosophical, even.
I’m leaned in, nodding slow, tilting my head, seeming as if I’m contemplating something deep.
He doesn’t need much, just eye contact and the occasional “Yeah…”
Make it look like I’m absorbent.
“Two words: Aero. Smith. And I was like—yep, that’s a wrap. Fuckin’ soulmates. Called it. Night fuckin’ one. Didn’t I? And the kicker?” He dips closer, voice lower. “Wasn’t even a real thing.”
My brow lifts.
“What wasn’t a real thing?”
“Soulmates,” he says, serious. “Was never real. Not ‘til you and me breathed out in the same second. First time that happened, I thought my fuckin’ heart stopped. You looked away real fast, smilin’ like it hit you too.” He throws his hands up. “That was it for me.”
God, he’s cute.
Like stupid, sickening cute.
Like go-jump-off-a-bridge cute.
“Drew—” A chuckle spills out of me. “—you sayin’ soulmates never existed before?”
“Sonny. That’s exactly what I’m sayin’. We’re the first ones. And I never liked anyone before you,” he goes on, shaking his head. “So if I’m doin’ this wrong, it’s ‘cause I’m makin’ it up as I go.”
The seconds pass in silence.
His grin starts to fade, the lights in his eyes dimming, and he reaches for the bag of frozen blueberries. “So you leavin’, huh? Takin’ off to California. Don’t tell nobody.” He holds the bag gentle to my cheekbone. “How long you gonna be gone for?”
His eyes bruise mine. He’s bothered,
hurt that I didn’t tell him about it.
“It’s just a work thing.
“Few days, in and out. Be back Friday.”
He almost says something,
then chooses not to.
He wants to ask more,
but he’s afraid it’s not his place.
So he changes the subject—“Now tell me somethin’. Somethin’ you’d never say sober.” He draws me down against him, one hand grazing my bare hip, the other keeping the bag steady at my cheek. “Gimme anything, Sonny.
“Whisper it if you gotta.
“Say it now.
“To me.”
He’s read the contract, so he knows:
no jerking off while Baby’s in the room.
The rule sits right between no hands on Baby and don’t even dream about head.
Maybe it’s the visual of Hunter that’s haunting—sitting at the foot of the bed, beating his meat, shoulders hunched, eyes wild and on me, drooling, hand stroking violently. The thought makes my skin crawl.
It’s perverted. Pathetic.
Always been that way.
Until Andrew.
“You brought up the whole jerkin’ yourself off thing. You know I hate that shit, right?”
He drops his eyes, probably thinking he screwed up, said too much.
I grab his jaw, steer his eyes back to me. “Guys jerkin’ off to me? Feels like bein’ used. Like they’re erasing the person, but keeping the body.
“But with you?
“I want it.”
His hand drops slow, blueberry bag falling away from my cheek. “You want it?” His eyes bounce around my face. “You want what? What’s it?”
He’s looking at me like he knows what he heard but still doubts it.
“Andrew... if you only knew how many nights I lay there thinkin’ about you—fist wrapped around your cock, breathing heavy in my ear, your eyes all over me… your mouth on my skin…
“I used to hate that,
“used to gag at the thought.
“But not with you.
“Now I’m desperate for it. For you. ”
His eyes widen. “Nah. Wait—what?”
Then his smile.
Then his blush.
They rise at once as he catches up.
Then he tosses the frozen bag on the ledge. “For me?”
I nod, looking at him, dazed.
“Not even you… touching yourself. I never gave a fuck if a guy came. Ever. But the gasping look on your face when you’re about to.
The gone look in your eyes when you do. The way your hips grind into it.
” My thighs clench around him at the thought.
“It’s all I wanna do—touch you, make you feel good, fall apart.
God, it’s so messed up how bad I wanna be that for you. ”
His faint smile’s stuck as he stares at me,
replaying my words in his head.
Then—
“Yo.” He laughs, eyes wide. “I gotta be real fuckin’ drunk right now, hearin’ shit.”
He looks around.
Grabs the bottle of wine.
“The fuck did they put in this?”
“Andrew—”
His eyes slam into mine again,
and he points at the bottle.
“You say this shit’s from Oregon?”
I pry the bottle out of his hand,
set it down behind him.
Then I take both his wrists, lift his arms,
and trap his hands behind his head,
pinning them there as I move in closer,
pressing my tits against his chest.
His body melts under me,
head tipping back onto the ledge,
eyes staying locked on mine.
“Cristo santo…
“Questa è roba da pazzi…”
My breath ghosts up his neck and hovers beside his ear. “Tell me right now, can I touch you?”
His throat works around a swallow.
“Yeah… Jesus, yeah…”
He licks his lips, nods.
“I’d fuckin’ die for your hands on me.”
I flatten my hand over his rising chest,
feeling his heart race beneath my palm,
then drag all the way down,
a slow descent,
dipping under the water,
over his abs.
“Oh my fuckin’ God…” leaves him raw.
I follow the soft trail of hair,
until it thickens at his pelvis,
and his pretty mouth falls open.
Eyes chained to mine, they drown.
His fingers tighten around my arm,
the one pinning his wrists behind his head.
“Allison,” he pants, wrecked.
“Gimme my hand. Lemme feel you.”
I give the smallest shake of my head.
“No,” I whisper, wrapping my fingers around his cock—hard, swollen, stretched and aching in the water between us—and drag my thumb over his thick head.
“Fuck—” he hisses through his teeth,
eyes falling heavy.
I stroke him again,
his brows bunching,
hips lifting like he can’t help it.
“Stay still,” I tease, stroking him again,
each pass tighter,
heat bleeding into my palm.
And he’s looking at me
like I’ve got a knife to his throat.
Like I could end him right now,
and he’d let me.
“Allison,” he groans, neck arching.
I look down at him through my lashes.
“Don’t call me that.
“One more time? I’ll drown you.”
A breath punches out of him.
The water laps up against my skin,
ripples tapping between us.
His gaze falls to my mouth,
my neck,
my breasts.
My hand’s wrapped tight around the base of his cock, stroking all the way up, tugging at the tip, thumb dragging across the velvet head.
He jolts under me. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he groans, deep and guttural, hips chasing. His head drops back again, eyes black when they find mine, every vein in his arm bulging under my grip.
Water beads down his tight neck,
throat straining.
“I wanna kiss you fuckin’ stupid,” he murmurs, staring at my split lip, “but that poor mouth…” He lifts his head, eyes hooded and wet from the steam, and he rests his mouth against my cheek, right by the corner of my busted lip. His lips brush, soft and strained as if not kissing me hurts.
And I keep grinding down his shaft.
A little filthy. A little faster.
A grunt chokes in his throat.
His cock kicks against my palm,
his pre-cum like silk under my thumb.
His biceps harden every time he tries to move. His stomach pulls tight, abs flexing against my knuckles.
“Fuck—” his face crumbles.
“You touch me so fuckin’ good.
“Like you—”
He moans, eyes squeezed closed.
“You fuckin’—
“You do me so right it’s scary.”
His head tips back, voice breaking.
“Oh my God...”
My head follows,
until we're forehead to forehead,
my chest crushing up against his,
heat slick between us,
our lungs rising together,
falling together,
like we’re plugged into each other.
Until—
His stomach’s rock hard,
teeth gritted, trying to hang on.
His lips part around a strangled gasp,
head tilting forward,
one low groan shoving into my jaw.
And when he comes, he fucking comes.
His cock jerks hard in my hand once—
twice—
and he spills for me,
broken and beautiful.
All over my fingers.
Into the hot, churning water between us.
His hips arch up into me, hands clenched into fists behind his head, his breath falling right into my mouth.
I have his orgasm trapped and stroke him through every stutter,
every grind of his hips,
until he’s deadweight and sated.
I release his hands.
They come over me,
one behind my head, in my hair,
the other across my back,
gripping my ass.
He’s panting into my collarbone,
kissing my throat,
mumbling drunk words,
all heart-on-the-loose and fever breath.
And these words aren’t pretty.
They don’t even make sense.
They’re messy, begging,
stumbling right out of him,
undressed, unrehearsed, unsober.
“Don’t go nowhere…
“Not even… not even a little.”
My heart collapses.
To its knees.
Begging me not to ruin this.
Begging me to keep him.
We’re both fucked up.
Our skin’s pale, peeled raw by heat and cold when we jump out.
Our hearts are punch-drunk,
beating dumb and wild.
Our lips are blue.
Our mouths bone dry.
The second my feet slap the cold stone:
“Shit—fuck—fuck—”
Ice grabs my ankles,
my thighs,
my spine.
I snatch a towel off the stand and bolt, leaving him behind like a drunk asshole. I don’t even have time to wrap myself in the towel before I’m running naked and barefoot, slipping all over my own stupid feet.
I don’t look back.
I’m laughing too hard.
“You—yo, Sonny—what about the mess?!” he shouts behind me, voice caving in from the cold. He shivers as he slips on his boxers, gesturing toward the pile next to the hot tub. “We can’t leave it like this.”
Empty bottles. Blueberry bag.
Clothes and shoes. Cigarette butts.
“Yes we can!” I yell,
shoulder-checking the door open,
hands purple, teeth knocking,
fingers going numb.
“I can’t,” he calls back, clutching his shit like he’s evacuating a natural disaster—arms full of clothes, his shoes, the corkscrew, my bra.
“I wanna leave it, aight? I do. But I can’t. I got issues. Brain don’t let me walk away from shit like that.”
Then he spins, spotting my shoes,
grabbing those too.
“Drew, you can do this.
“Just let it go. I’ll clean it tomorrow.”
He stumbles in behind me, muscles flexing against the cold, laughter punching out of him, wild and unhinged.
The door shuts.
Then he points behind him like we left someone out there. “I gotta go back.”
“What? No, you’re soaked.”
He turns to the window.